The Trouble with Faking It
by nowforruin
Summary: Killian Jones is one drunken mistake from never setting foot on a movie set again. Enter Emma Swan, the woman his manager has paid to pretend to date him and clean up his image. It seems straightforward enough...but there's always trouble with faking it. CaptainSwan.
1. Chapter 1

What is this? Another one shot? No? Could it be the return of a multi chapter work?

Yep, I'm back! Updates will be every other day (at least that's the plan) given my summer class schedule, because, grad school.

Enjoy :)

* * *

Emma Swan is having a pretty good morning. She tracked down an especially wanted criminal last night, and her cut is enough that she doesn't feel the slightest bit guilty spending more than five dollars on a fancy coffee that's more chocolate than anything.

It's a lie. She still feels guilty. But she tells herself she doesn't have to, and that counts for something.

The sun is shining brightly. It isn't too hot, the sky is clear, and the wind isn't trying to kill people. It's about as perfect as it gets in Los Angeles, and she's happy to savor it. She doesn't usually have time to sit at the wrought-iron tables outside the café, watch the traffic go by and actually _enjoy_ her coffee, but today she does.

And. It. Is. Glorious.

She pulls a book out of her bag and settles in, getting lost in another time, another place, another world entirely. Her finger skims the rim of her coffee cup occasionally as she reads, and she's so lost in her book she doesn't notice at first when a woman slides into the seat across from her.

"Have you ever considered acting?"

The question startles her out of her thoughts, and she nearly spills her coffee everywhere. Sitting across from her is a rather severe looking woman in a suit. She's staring intently at Emma, red lips pursed in expectation.

"No," Emma answers once she manages to collect herself. This isn't the first time someone has asked her this question. She has the blessing of being blonde, slim, and attractive in a city that prides itself on being beautiful - but she has no interest in that life. She goes back to her book without giving the woman another glance.

"Perfect."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm looking to fill a rather unique role, and aspiring actresses won't do." The woman smiles, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. "Regina Mills." She holds out her hand, all smooth skin and manicured nails.

Emma eyes the offered hand, but doesn't take it, wrapping both her hands around her coffee mug. "I'm sorry, but what does this have to do with me?"

The woman laughs, a detached sort of amusement. "Oh, you would be perfect, Miss…?"

"Swan," Emma answers begrudgingly, her curiosity beginning to get the best of her. "Emma Swan. I still don't understand what you want with me."

"I have a job offer for you. It's a six-figure payment and would require a year's commitment."

"What's the job?"

"All business, I see. Not a lot of that left in this town."

"I'm not from here."

"None of us are, Miss Swan." Regina slides a business card across the table smoothly. It's one of those horribly vague cards, bold black letters proclaiming an address and nothing more. With a flick of her wrist, she looks at her watch, diamonds sparking in the sunlight. "If you're interested, come to my office at two."

"I don't even know what you're offering."

"Something for your ears only." Regina glances around the crowded patio, reaching into her bag and sliding a very expensive pair of sunglasses over her eyes. "Two o'clock," she repeats, striding away on a pair of red-soled stilettos without so much as a misplaced hair on her head.

Emma watches her go, holding the card between her thumb and index finger with a touch of apprehension. This could be the beginning of a horror movie – a strange woman approaches her, offers her a job, gives her a business card and walks off. But this woman, while cool and direct, didn't give off the serial killer vibe. Whatever she does, whatever job she has, she must not be lying about the paycheck, because Emma sees the car she gets into – a Mercedes with a six-figure price tag.

She stares at the card as she finishes her now-cold coffee. The address is in West Hollywood, and she knows the area well enough to know the address isn't cheap either.

Not that much in this town is.

She picks her book back up, resolving not to go. This is how people end up dead, taking offers from strangers to go to random addresses alone. She should know – a good number of the lowlifes she tracks down have lured their victims off to strange addresses.

But she can't concentrate. What _is_ this job that requires an actress who doesn't want to be an actress? And with a six-figure paycheck?

It can't hurt to go check it out, can it? She can take her gun – she's got the permit to carry it. If it goes sideways, she can protect herself. She's been in bad situations plenty of times before.

And if not…that much money all at once is a hell of payout. She could pay off some bills, afford a vacation – definitely replace her car before it quits one day on the freeway.

With a sigh, she packs up her book and heads home to grab her gun. She debates changing – her skinny jeans and black tank are hardly job interview material – but Regina approached her dressed like this, her hair a mess and little more than a swipe of mascara on her lashes.

"This is ridiculous," she mumbles to herself, sliding the gun into the back of her waistband and adjusting her shirt over it. How is she here to grab a weapon while at the same time worrying about how she looks?

Though it doesn't seem quite so strange, given the world she's used to.

The address leads to a well-appointed office building, the entrance made mostly of glass. A valet takes her key with a sigh of dismay over the appearance of her car, but there's no option to park it herself. The massive glass door proclaims this to be Red Delicious Management, which only piques Emma's curiosity further.

And makes her feel a little silly for bringing the gun. Between the valet and the fancy office with the perfectly styled receptionist, this is obviously some sort of Hollywood management firm.

"Um…hi," she greets the girl behind the desk. The blonde doesn't so much as look up from her iPhone, perfectly shaped nails tapping away while Emma grows impatient. "Hey!"

"Can I help you?" The girl looks down her nose at Emma, frowning at her appearance. "If you're lost, we're not a tourist direction giving place or whatever."

"I have an appointment with Regina Mills."

"Really?"

"Are you kidding me? Yes, really. She gave me this card." Emma slams the card down on the granite counter, rapidly losing patience. "Emma Swan. Two o'clock."

The girl doesn't seem phased by Emma's outburst. She simply gets up from her seat and starts walking down the tiled hallway, her heels clicking along. Emma rolls her eyes, assuming she's supposed to follow.

She stops when her escort does in front of two dark wooden doors. "Ms. Mills, your two o'clock is here," she calls through the door, and Emma has to bite back a laugh. The girl is sweet as pie now.

Emma doesn't hear a reply, but there must be one because the bitchiest receptionist ever opens the door and stands there waiting for her to walk in. "Thanks," Emma tells her with the least amount of sincerity she can muster.

The office is beautiful. Marble floors stretch to an expansive wall of glass overlooking a garden. There's a massive desk pressed against one wall, two chairs before it and a couch along the other wall. Regina is sitting behind the desk – someone else is flopped on the couch, possibly asleep by the look of it.

"Ah, Miss Swan." Regina gestures to the seat in front of her desk, and Emma crosses the room hesitantly, glancing over her shoulder at the leather-clad form on the couch. "Oh, don't mind him." Her voice is filled with contempt at her gaze follows Emma's, her arms crossing over his chest. "He's only here as a courtesy."

"Sod off," the pile of leather grumbles, voice thick with sleep or liquor, Emma isn't sure. She can't make out his face, what with the arm tossed over it, but there's something oddly familiar about that voice.

"I'd really like to know what I'm doing here now." Emma takes the offered seat, sinking into the upholstery. She's surprised – for how cold this woman appears to be, her office furniture is remarkably comfortable.

"Here's the deal, Miss Swan. I have a client who has gotten himself into a bad situation. I need a unique and capable individual to assist him in cleaning up his mess."

"Why me?"

"You've got an innocent face. You're pretty." Regina leans forward, smiling a knowing smile. "You're good at finding people. I assume you've learned not to take other people's crap along the way."

"How did you…"

"Background check, of course. You wouldn't have gotten past the front door if I had found anything unsavory."

Emma snorts, getting to her feet. "Well, you obviously have the wrong woman. I was arrested…"

"And went to jail when you were eighteen for stealing. Yes, I know. I also know you got out of jail and have done well since, in spite of the obvious sacrifice you made during your stay. In fact, you help catch criminals." Regina's voice has dropped, too quiet to be overheard, and Emma stares at her in shock. _No one_ knows about that part of her life – her employer knows about the jail time, she's admitted to that. But the other part…that's a secret she's guarded closely.

"It's really strange that you looked all this up, and you haven't even told me what you want." Emma doesn't sit back down right away, her hands gripping the back of her chair at she levels her gaze at Regina. She's not going to ask how Regina knows about her son. Not with someone else in the room, someone Regina obviously hasn't filled in on her past. "No more talking in circles. What's the job?"

"Be his girlfriend for a year," she says bluntly, nodding at the slumped form on the couch.

"Excuse me?"

"This is bloody ridiculous!" The protests come at the same time, and Emma turns to watch him lurch up from the couch. Bloodshot eyes flicker to hers, his face a mess of stubble, but still familiar, like she's seen him before somewhere.

"Killian, sit down. We agreed this was the best plan. At least, that was before you got into whatever dive you did last night." Regina wrinkles her nose at him. Emma can smell the liquor on him, and it's a struggle not to walk right out then and there.

"You want me to _date_ him?" She ignores the drunk, incredulous. Of all the offers she's gotten for work in this town, this is the strangest. "I'm not an escort! And you know people will find out about my past if they start looking, right?" she hisses, quieter, too quiet for the belligerent man behind her.

"I didn't say you had to sleep with him, Miss Swan…and I've buried it," Regina replies just as quietly before going on in a louder voice, "I want you to make the world believe you're dating him. Go to lunch, go to dinner. Spend the night in his house. Attend a premier on his arm. The usual things a girlfriend does. Also, keep him out of clubs and bars…and from trying to attack photographers."

"Photographers?"

"The lass doesn't even bloody know who I am!"

Regina sighs, the mask dropping for a fraction of a second to reveal a weariness Emma is beginning to understand. She's been in the same room with the man for five minutes – she's put enough together to understand he's Regina's wayward client. "Miss Swan, may I present Killian Jones?"

" _That's_ why you look so familiar!" Emma turns to face him, unable to resist making a face. "You're that actor they keep talking about. Didn't you just get kicked off of some movie?"

"Not her," he declares, glaring with all his might at Emma. The fact that he's obviously drunk in the middle of the day doesn't make it very threatening. He can barely keep his feet under him, swaying as he points at Regina.

"Yes, her," Regina replies firmly. She turns her attention back to Emma. "As you so eloquently put it, he did in fact just get kicked off a movie for his poor behavior. The producer has another project in the works, and should it get green lit, and Mr. Jones can prove himself not an insurance impossibility, the role will be his. He _wants_ the role, and will therefore do as I say to ensure he gets it."

"I don't know. This is hardly my thing. I chase down criminals who skip bail. I don't babysit messed up actors." She can't help the sidelong glance at Killian, sprawled across the couch and once again possibly asleep. It's hard to tell with the way he's crumpled against the cushions.

"Ah, and I suppose you just walk up to these upstanding citizens and request they come along nicely?"

"No, it's a lot of undercover work."

"Well, Miss Swan, it appears that you're used to being someone else for a living. This isn't so different – except I'm willing to pay you quite handsomely for it." Regina slides a stack of paperwork across the desk. "I had the contracts drawn up in the event you were willing to accept. You'll find your compensation addressed on the first page."

Emma glances at her before pulling the top sheet of paper free, her eyes easily finding the sum. "You can't be serious."

"Perfectly. The arrangement will pay for itself, should you keep your end of the bargain."

"You want to pay me _half a million dollars_ to pretend to date him for a year?" Emma gestures behind her, struggling to make her mind catch up. This morning she was excited to enjoy her over-priced coffee. Now this woman wants to pay her a ridiculous amount of money to pretend to date a fairly famous actor – though he's a lot better looking when he's not in yesterday's clothes, reeking of liquor.

"Well, Miss Swan, only the three of us would know. To the rest of the world, you would be dating him. No one outside this room would be aware of our arrangement."

"It's not my fault the bloody crocodile is intentionally ruining my career!" He's apparently awake, and when she looks at him, sitting up. He's got the look of a petulant child, brows drawn together as his gaze wobbles between the two women.

Emma raises an eyebrow, glancing from Regina and back to Killian. "The crocodile?"

Regina rolls her eyes, silencing her client with a glare. "The guy is a creep. Rumple Gold, have you heard of him?"

"Bloody nuisance of a man. Too much of a coward to ever face me, just sends his ridiculous little spies!" Killian cuts in from his spot on the couch. He's still sitting up (barely) and his head lolls back against the cushions following his outburst.

Emma sighs, shaking her head at Regina's question. "No, I can't say I have."

"He owns one of the paparazzi companies and a few of the trashier magazines. He and Killian have had a bit of a disagreement, personally, and he's found an outlet for his grudge in selling photos we wish he wouldn't to the highest bidder. It's not helped by Mr. Jones behaving in such a manner to constantly give him material."

"He's a bloody git."

Emma twists in her seat to face him, half-afraid to even ask. "Why do you hate him?"

"He slept with his wife," Regina supplies, her tone one of a _very_ fed up parent.

"She _never_ told me she was married! How many bloody times must we go over this ridiculous tale? I did not steal the man's wife." There's real emotion in the words, and for a second, Emma wonders at that story, because it's _clearly_ more than a case of a scandalous affair by the tone of his voice.

"Be that as it may…" Regina silences him with another glare when he seems ready to continue, turning her full attention to Emma once more. "Gold is trouble. Part of your duties would be to keep Mr. Jones out of trouble with the photographers." Regina's eyes narrow, her steely gaze settling firmly on Killian. "No falling out of cars. No getting kicked out of clubs or bars. No punching photographers or being videoed threatening photographers. Do I make myself clear?"

"I've a right to defend myself!"

Emma sighs as Killian and his manager get into it once more. Regina is the picture of cold collectedness, while Killian is all over the place, cursing and ranting and raving. She would be insane to take this on, but she might be ever more insane to turn this down. The amount of money Regina is offering her to do this, with (if she's reading this paper correctly) a bonus if he lands the movie role this is all about of an equally shocking size…she could move out of her crappy loft and maybe _buy_ an apartment.

It's the first time in a long time that having a home, an actual _home_ that belongs to her, seems attainable – if she can spend a year with Killian Jones without murdering him.

"I'll do it," she finally says, nearly shouting to be heard over the two of them bickering back and forth. His eyes widen in surprise, and he simply stares at her, all blue-eyed wonder while Regina's carefully painted lips curl in satisfaction.

"Excellent, Miss Swan. I'll need you to sign those forms. A contract for your services, as well as a confidentiality and non-disclosure agreement. Should you like to have your attorney look these over, we can call him or her to the office. I'm afraid I can't let you leave without signing the confidentiality agreement."

"Like I have an attorney on speed dial. I said I'd do it. The contract doesn't have some weird nonsense in it, does it?" Emma flips through the first few pages in the stack of paper Regina has pushed across her desk, her eyes not catching on anything. It seems like a lot of legalese that basically says she keeps him out of trouble and she gets paid – and she can't tell anyone about it.

"You do understand you can tell no one about your arrangement? Not a friend, not a family member."

"I have no family."

"Fine, then. Your friends, your coworkers, whoever you talk to outside this room. To them, you are dating Killian Jones and you are blissfully happy. When he behaves badly – and rest assured, Miss Swan, he can't help himself and he will – you will continue on with this until such a time as your contract expires or we release you. You are clear on these facts?"

Emma hesitates, turning to the man in question. His brow is furrowed at Regina's words, but he's not trying to defend himself. Instead, when he finds Emma looking at him, he pulls a flask from his pocket and drinks deeply, refusing to meet her gaze. There's something about him, something that's just a little bit sad, that makes her wonder if there's more to his story than either of them are letting on.

But it isn't about that – it's about doing something for herself, something that could _finally_ give her a leg up and out of a life on the move.

"Yeah, I'm clear. Where do I sign?"


	2. Chapter 2

"So…how does this work?" Emma asks as she signs line after line of the contracts. Part of her wonders if perhaps she _should_ have called a lawyer to look it all over, but lawyers like to be paid, and she's still going to be broke until this is all over.

That's the point, after all.

"We will arrange to have some photos taken, once _someone_ has sobered up enough to appear more handsomely disheveled movie star than drunk in the gutter…"

"I am standing right bloody here!"

"Those photos will be leaked to one of the internet gossip bloggers. It will make people curious. At first, you'll smile shyly, ask for your privacy. Killian will be coy in interviews when asked about you, but we'll continue to leak photos. Blurry images of you together at his house, you leaving in the morning in his shirt. Images that create a trail of dots simple enough for even the most mentally incapable idiot to connect."

Emma is finding it harder to swallow the longer Regina goes on. She knew on some level that this is about how it was going to go down – she's lived in Los Angeles long enough to understand how a publicity relationship works. But is she actually going to spend the night at his house?

How else would it work?

Is he going to come to _her_ apartment? Her awful, tiny, cramped studio where the only room with a door is the bathroom that's the size of closet? She winces to herself, imagining the look of disgust she's likely to receive when compared to his undoubtedly sprawling mansion somewhere in the hills.

"Do you find that distasteful, Miss Swan?" Regina's sharp tone cuts into her thoughts, and Emma jerks her head back up to meet the woman's narrowed gaze. "I assure you, if you find yourself already displeased, we had better stop now."

"No. I'm sorry, I was thinking about something else." Emma makes a weak attempt at a smile, shrugging her shoulders. "It's a lot to take in."

"Indeed it is, so pay attention." Emma sits up a little straighter, signing the last page of the contract and sliding it back onto Regina's desk. She doesn't dare look behind her at Killian, though he's being quiet at the moment.

They spend the next hour going over the rules Regina lays out. Emma is surprised to find she's not the only one with a part to play, that _he's_ being given instructions as well. He simply nods along with it, and Emma begins to wonder about him and why he's even doing this – why he's suddenly quieted down and gotten with Regina's program.

Is one movie role really worth the time, effort, and money this endeavor is going to require? In addition to the fee Regina plans to pay her, she's also found out over the course of the afternoon that any gifts he may purchase her, or any required purchases, such as gowns for appearances, will be hers to keep. And as she'll have no real income to speak of while she's playing the role of dutiful girlfriend, her rent and bills will also be covered as part of the arrangement. They're giving her a credit card to cover any other expenses, and he's paying.

Emma leaves the office feeling a bit queasy. She's not planning to sleep with him – that isn't part of the bargain – but it feels like she's made a whore's deal. He gets to parade her around, dress her up, and at the end, she gets a big, fat payday.

She thinks about backing out the entire drive home. There's traffic – there's always traffic – and she watches the endless glow of the taillights winding a path through the city before her. Is it worth it? This deal she's making, it's going to make things possible that she could never achieve on her own. How hard could it possibly be to pretend to be an actor's girlfriend for a year?

Still, she's all but convinced herself she's going to call Regina as soon as she gets inside and tell her the deal is off. She won't do it. She'll keep doing her job that pays just enough to get by, but at least she'll have her pride.

Only, when she gets inside and she looks around the five hundred square feet she calls home, the dishes piled in the sink, the threadbare futon she sleeps on, the pile of laundry she doesn't have time or money to deal with all at once, she closes her eyes and admits to herself the truth.

It's a bitter pill to swallow. Her pride sticks in her throat, makes her want to howl into the night that she's better than this, to climb up on the rooftop and scream into the endless noise of the freeway that she's going to be _just fine_.

But it's a lie. She wants out of this life, this tiny, messy, struggle of a life. She's tired of struggling, of scraping along. Five hundred thousand isn't enough for her to not have to work again, but it's enough money that she could have a home that's paid for.

All Emma has ever wanted is a home of her own, and Killian Jones can give that to her.

She sighs, reaching into her fridge for a beer and flopping down on the futon with it. The wooden slats creak in protest, but she ignores them, her head lolling back against the thin cushion. She's supposed to meet Regina tomorrow back at the office in the morning to drive up to Killian's place so they can take the first of what will undoubtedly be many fake photos.

Before she's too tired to deal with it, she gets back up, digging through the pile of clothes to find the one bathing suit she owns that isn't fraying. Regina told her they planned to take photos by his pool, so the bathing suit and sandals go into a bag along with an ancient bottle of sunscreen she finds under the bathroom sink.

She stares at herself in the mirror, her mascara smudged from rubbing her eyes, dry lips and snarled hair. Who on earth is ever going to believe some famous actor wants her? Regular men don't want her. She's been on more bad dates than she can count, and with a handful of exceptions ( _all of which have gone down in flames_ ) her romantic liaisons are of the one night only variety.

But she's signed her name ( _over and over_ ) so now she's in this. It's too late to back out.

She falls asleep without getting undressed, the hum of the freeway familiar through the open windows after several more beers, waking with a start as her alarm blares. She didn't remember to charge her phone, so with several curses, she plugs the damn thing in while stumbling her way into the shower to begin what's sure to be a very strange day.

The valet is marginally nicer to her today at Regina's office, but that likely has something to do with the woman herself already in her car in the driveway, waiting. "You're late," she snaps at Emma as she gets in, the buttery soft leather seat making her slide into place before the door shuts.

"It's two minutes past!"

"Correct, Miss Swan. That makes you late." Regina slams the car into gear, tearing out of the drive and onto the narrow road. She casts a sidelong glance at Emma as they begin to make their way into the hills. "Good, you're not wearing any makeup."

"It's in my bag. I didn't have time…"

"No makeup."

"But…" A pang of insecurity tugs at Emma. She's already been told these photos are going to be seen by a _lot_ of people, and she's usually not this girl, but does she _really_ have to get thrown into this with raccoon eyes?

"Were you not paying attention yesterday? Low quality shots taken from a distance. No one will be able to tell if you're wearing make up or not. And on the odd chance a photographer catches you today that isn't one of ours, you will appear as natural as possible." Regina smirks, taking a sharp turn fast enough to slam Emma into the door. "You don't strike me as the type to bother with a full face of makeup alone with your boyfriend."

Emma eyes the woman's bright red lips and heavily lined eyes, her skin alabaster smooth. She hates that she's right – Emma barely bothers with more than a little bit of concealer and some mascara if she isn't playing a part for her job.

She expects a massive mansion, but she's surprised when Regina pulls up to a gate that opens to a fairly modest house – modest by the neighborhood's standards. It's beautiful, what with the enormous panes of glass that must afford a spectacular view, clean, white walls and a sprawling, lush green yard. For a split second, she breathes in the scent of grass and wildflowers and imagines sipping coffee with the coolness of the dawn on her skin.

But it's not real. None of this is real.

She follows Regina into the house, noticing some of the smaller details. Old ship lights frame the massive wooden door that opens into a generous entryway, rich wooden floors stretching into the house. There's a small table beside the door, a bowl filled with sunglasses sitting on it, a key rack on the wall above it. She nearly reaches out to touch it, the row of keys dangling from what appear to be over-sized blunted fishing hooks, but she snatches her hand back at the sound of a throat clearing.

He's sober today, his eyes clear as he evaluates her. She isn't sure what she expected to find (they're in _his_ house) but she isn't quite prepared for the sight that greets her. He's barefoot, wearing shorts and a short-sleeved button-up, but none of the buttons are done. His shirt hangs open, revealing toned abs and a dark trail of hair reaching down from his navel.

"Take a good look, love." Her eyes snap back to his at his teasing tone, and she flushes at being caught staring. "Might as well get used to it now. Who knows? You may even grow fond of me." He smirks, an invitation lingering on his lips, but there's something about the way his eyes don't quite follow that catches her attention.

"Hi. I'm sorry. This is weird."

"Aye."

"You two will have plenty of time to get to know each other. Right now we have a schedule to stick to. Emma, go change. Killian, outside." Regina issues orders like a drill sergeant, pointing to a bathroom just off the entryway.

She doesn't mean to look at him again, but she can't help herself, her eyes drawn into that curious pool of blue. He's watching her, and she can't help but think about a lion stalking its prey through the tall grasses.

She emerges to find only Regina waiting for her, and it makes her self-conscious all over again to be inspected by those cold eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest, not exactly cold, but feeling terribly exposed standing in this house in a bikini.

She's done far worse on assignment – her looks have lent themselves to posing as a stripper or prostitute more than once. But this is different, somehow, no matter how many times she tells herself it's just a job.

"Yes, you'll do nicely." Regina starts walking into the house without another word, and Emma assumes she's supposed to follow. They're moving too quickly for her to really notice much, but the house is filled with rich, warm wood between the furniture and the floors. It lends a softness to it she wouldn't expect for such a big house with a single inhabitant.

The back opens suddenly to an enormous patio. The view of the valley is just as impressive as she thought, the hill dropping sharply away from the edge of the infinity pool to reveal a hazy view of Los Angeles. It's not a clear morning, but she suspects if it was, she may be able to see the ocean.

Killian is waiting for them on the patio, lounging with his ankles crossed on one of the chaises. He gets to his feet as Emma steps out onto the already sun-warmed concrete, but this time, when he gives her a once-over, there's a heat in his gaze she never expected. "That's a lovely suit you've got there, Swan."

"Thanks," she mumbles, her cheeks pink. She hugs herself without meaning to, trying to somehow cover some of the skin she's exposing in the bikini. It's got to get easier, once they get to somehow know each other a bit, but right now, she feels like she's having one of those dreams where she's showed up for work naked.

"Regina, would you kindly give us a minute?"

"We've only got…"

"Just a minute." There's something about his tone that makes the manager back down, yanking out her phone and tapping away on it as she retreats into the house, muttering all the way.

He sighs, scratching behind his ear before scrubbing his face roughly with his hand. "Swan, I know this is terribly awkward. I understand it must seem very strange to you, an arrangement like this. If it helps, I wasn't for it the first fifteen times Regina suggested it."

"What changed your mind?"

"This role…" His eyes slip shut, and he sighs before looking back at her. "I've played thieves and criminals and pirates. I've been the villain. This role is a chance to be the hero, to be more clever than one or two lines at the opportune moment. It's a chance to be taken seriously."

"I think I understand." She smiles, a sad smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's forgotten she's standing on his patio in her bikini and nothing else, the lilt of his words washing over her. "I said no the first time, too."

"What made you change your mind?" He's curious, and she can tell by the lift of his eyebrow that he wasn't aware she'd turned it down before finally agreeing to it.

"A chance for a home," she says quietly, her eyes on the view of the city below.

His brow only furrows further, but Regina sweeps back onto the patio before he has the chance to say anything else. "Are you through?" she demands, gesturing with her phone. "Can we please get on with it? Just because you're my most irritating client doesn't mean you're my only one."

"Yes, my evil queen. Whatever your black heart desires." He sketches a bow with a smirk, would be ridiculous even if he wasn't wearing only an open shirt with a pair of swim shorts.

"Watch it." Regina levels him with another of her cool stares before pointing to the pool. "Like we talked about. The two of you in the pool to start, then sharing one of the loungers. Think happy new relationship."

He shrugs out of his shirt, holding his hand out to Emma. "Come along, love. I promise to keep you from drowning."

She shivers as she takes his hand, warm, callused fingers wrapping around hers. She expects the water to be cold, but it's heated, and in spite of the temperatures not having reached their highs, it's pleasant enough.

Regina melts into the shadows as they ease into the pool, thankfully silent. He doesn't let go of her hand, pulling her into the water until it's nearly to their shoulders before turning back to face her.

It's the closest they've been to one another since this whole crazy thing began. Yesterday, the stale scent of liquor and cigarette smoke clung to him, permeating Regina's office, but today he's sober, and she's close enough to breathe in the slightly spicy scent of him – a scent she finds just a little too appealing.

She looks up at him as he turns, her breath catching for a moment at the intensity of his expression. His eyes are impossibly blue, flecks of grey visible this close. It reminds her of the ocean on a clear day – or it would if he wasn't staring at her like he is, a storm brewing.

"Put your hands on my shoulders," he says softly, threading his fingers into her hair. She does as she's told nervously, the water pushing them closer together. He takes another step back into deeper water, and Emma instinctively tightens her grip on him as they move.

He chuckles, a low, throaty rumble as his arm encircles her waist below the water. "Smile, Swan, like you're enjoying this. It won't do if you look terrified. I won't bite." He ducks his head close to her ear, his breath warm on her skin. "Unless you ask me to," he tacks on, much too quietly for Regina to possibly overhear.

"Not part of the deal," she shoots back, stretching her lips into a grin even she knows is probably more demented than happy.

"So tell me, Swan, what do you like to do when you're not saving my train wreck of a career?" he asks as they float deeper into the pool, surprising her.

She smiles in spite of herself, leaning back to let the hazy sunlight fall across her face. "Sit in the sun. Read a book. Drink a coffee."

"I shall have to remember that. Books, coffee and sunshine." He flashes her a grin, the one she's seen on the cover of many a magazine in the checkout line at the grocery store, all shiny white teeth and dazzling blue eyes. But there's something different about it, here in this pool with him, getting to know him in some scraps of fabric with their every move being watched…something just a little sad.

"We live in Southern California. The sunshine shouldn't be hard."

He laughs, squinting in the bright light. "No, I suppose not. And I do enjoy a good coffee."

"Aren't you supposed to like tea?" she teases, finally starting to relax. She knows Regina is hovering, but she's trying to pretend she's not – she's trying to pretend she's just a girl talking to an attractive boy in his very expensive pool on a warm day.

"Oh, I see. I should like tea and whiskey. Does that mean you enjoy cheap beer and obscenely large pick up trucks?"

She shrugs. "Cheap beer has its place." Like when it's all she can afford, she thinks darkly, but she keeps her smile plastered on. Regina was right – this is a bit like being undercover. She has a role to play, and her life doesn't depend on her getting it right this time, but a lot hangs in the balance. She can be polite and find a good harmony with him to keep their business arrangement from being unpleasant, but she needs to remember this man is _not_ actually interested in her.

She can't tell him her secrets.

His gaze turns pensive, like he's picked up on the change in her mood. But she can't let him question it, can't let him see through her _already_ or she's never going to survive an entire year beside him and come out the other side undamaged.

So she sweeps her arm back and splashes him full in the face.

He sputters for a minute, genuine surprise widening his eyes even as the pool water drips from his sinfully long lashes. She holds her breath, a smile dancing on her lips as she watches him, fully expecting retaliation.

She knows she's in for it when the smirk starts, curving up in a crooked promise of mischief to come. "Poor form, Swan," is all the warning she gets before he lunges for her, pulling her under with him.

For the first time in a long time, she _laughs._ Really laughs. Forgets they're being watched. Forgets this is the first step in a carefully choreographed routine to earn him a prize at the end of the race. Forgets that she barely knows him.

Emma's been trying to forget for so long she barely recognizes it when it actually happens.

They're so wrapped up in their game that neither of them notices Regina standing at the edge of the pool right away, what passes for a happy smile on her face. "All right, we got what we need," she tells them, gesturing toward the stairs leading from the pool. "Emma, you can change. I'll give you a ride back to the office."

Emma nods, reality slamming back into her. This isn't _real_. He's an actor – a well-paid one. She let herself get caught up in the moment, and she's going to have to be a lot more careful.

She gets out of the pool without looking at him, wrapping herself in one of the huge fluffy towels sitting on the lounge chair. Dimly, she remembers Regina saying they were going to take more photos on the chairs, but either she's forgotten or has changed her mind.

Emma isn't about to ask.

She slips into the house, the wood cool under her feet after the warm concrete patio. His voice follows her, annoyed, and she can practically see his scowl. "Was that entirely necessary? We were just having a bit of fun."

"Do you want her getting attached to you?" Regina's response is icy, cutting through Emma like a knife. "When this is over, you want to be single. It's better publicity. Keep your distance, Jones. Remember she's being _paid_ to do this."

She makes herself keep walking into the house, out of earshot when ( _if_ ) he replies. It doesn't matter what he says – Regina is right. This is a job. She can't afford to get carried away thinking it's anything else.

* * *

I am simply blown away by how much everyone liked the first chapter! Hopefully chapter 2 lived up to your expectations.

Many thanks to oncepromised for typo detection and general hand-holding.

I'm posting this heading into a final for possibly the worst class of my grad school career, so feel free to leave me rambly, ridiculous notes. God knows I'll need a laugh when this is over!


	3. Chapter 3

She shouldn't be surprised how quickly the photos surface, but it's hard not to stare when she's in the checkout line at Ralphs, her arms loaded down with groceries since she didn't bother to get a basket and a shiny new credit card in her pocket she still feels a little strange using. They're not the main headline (not _yet_ , she thinks with a grimace) but all of the trashy tabloids have one take or another on the "mystery girl" Killian Jones spent the afternoon with at his house.

It's impossible to tell it's her, but she _knows_ and it makes it hard to look at ( _and harder to look away_ ). Her arms are wrapped around his neck, her head thrown back, their bodies pressed close together. The photo quality is too poor to make out their features, but she _remembers_ how he made her laugh, how his hands fit easily on her hips as he held her close below the water.

They look like a couple enjoying each other – that _was_ the point of the entire thing. It _is_ the point, so she's just going to have to find a way to deal with the sudden pang of longing the memory invokes – one that doesn't involve falling for him.

She's been accused by plenty of men of being cold when she's dismissed attempts at relationships, when she's left in the middle of the night, when she's turned down anything more than a bedroom tango. She's let them believe it, because the truth is, Emma isn't cold.

She feels _everything_ and that's the problem. A life like hers can't be survived giving into every last emotion, so she's learned to bottle them up, shove them down, keep her distance far and her walls high. She's mostly accomplished this by just simply not being close to anyone, not spending too much time with any one person.

She's got a year to spend with Killian Jones, and he's unsettled her in one afternoon.

Her thoughts swirl as she drives home, wondering how she's going to survive. Does she just let it happen? Let herself _feel_? It might make it a more enjoyable year – but she's pretty sure knowing it's all fake will hurt worse than trying to maintain her distance. No, better to do her best to keep their lives as separate as possible.

They're taking more photos tonight. Emma doesn't even know where they're going to be, but Regina told her to come to Killian's house for seven. She practically groans at the thought, her ancient, sputtering Bug in his pristine driveway, never mind navigating the narrow, winding roads in the hills.

But this is her job now.

She dithers over what to wear. It's a warm evening, but she has no idea what they're going to be doing. None of her clothes are really appropriate for hanging out with a movie star, so she eventually gives up and just grabs something comfortable. The result is a pair of jean cutoff shorts that are _maybe_ just a little too short and a thin, white tank. Her attempt at dressing it up is adding a few long necklaces and a pair of leather sandals, leaving her hair loose. She sighs, eying herself critically in the mirror.

A designer wardrobe isn't going to magically fall out of her closet, so this is as good as it's getting.

She's nervous on the drive, her thighs sticking to the Bug's leather seats in the heat. Traffic in LA doesn't move fast enough to create a good breeze through the open windows, and she can't remember the last time the air-conditioning worked properly in the old car. She just prays her face isn't going to be red and sweaty by the time she arrives.

It's still a bit of a shock when the gate opens at her arrival, admitting her to his home without question.

Regina opens the door, her eyes roaming over Emma's outfit with a definite sense of disapproval. "This isn't the trailer park, Miss Swan," she snaps, ushering her inside.

"I know. I'm wearing shoes." Emma flashes a bright smile at the irritated woman, catching a glimpse of Killian's smirk over her shoulder. He's not exactly dressed up either, a well-fitting pair of worn jeans covering his legs and a snug T-shirt stretched across his chest.

He is _not_ wearing shoes.

"Oh, leave the lass be, Regina. It doesn't matter what she's wearing tonight." Killian steps into the entryway, jingling a pair of keys in his hand. "No one's going to care about her clothes."

"Can someone fill me in?" Emma asks, desperately trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. It's obvious these two know what the plan is for the evening, but she _doesn't_ , and she's not sure she can spend an entire year being the last one to know everything.

She nearly says as much, but she's still replaceable. All the tabloids have is a blonde. It's LA. They can find another blonde.

"Sorry, love. I did ask her to fill you in." Killian grins that award-winning grin at her, and she struggles to hold onto her irritation, because she is _not_ falling for his charms.

"And?"

"And, we're going for a bit of a ride."

"Could you be any more cryptic?" she finally snaps, throwing up her hands and glaring at him. "Look, I fully get that my life is not entirely my own until this is over, but if we're going to get through this year without hating each other, when I ask you a direct question, please just answer me. It will go better for you that way."

He raises an eyebrow at her, his fingers curling around his keys as his eyes narrow. "Aye, is that so?"

"Yes."

"Enough!" Regina claps her hands at them like two misbehaving dogs, scowling from behind her heavily painted eyes. "Stop glaring at each other. You're going for a nice, romantic evening drive in the hills."

"A car ride? You brought me up here just to get in a car with him and drive around town?"

Regina sighs, her fingers kneading her temples in a show of irritation. "Miss Swan, deciding how to play this out with the media is not your job. That belongs to me. If you must know, yes, you are to get in the car and drive around town. It's what a low-key, normal couple might do. That is the story we are telling. Killian Jones has a new girlfriend. He spends time with her in his pool. He drives her around at night in his own car. And in the morning, she leaves his house at a reasonable hour, not slinking out at dawn. Normal."

"Wait, what?"

"Not to worry, lass. There's four bedrooms for you to choose from. Unless, of course, you prefer to share my bed," he offers with something between a leer and a smirk, the mischief lighting up his eyes once more.

"No one told me I was staying here tonight! I don't have a change of clothes or anything!" Emma can feel the rising panic, because it's one thing to come up here expecting some sort of staged photo, but now she's supposed to stay here _all night_ with him? And since Regina will obviously leave at some point, they're going to be _alone?_ She can feel the control she's held onto so desperately all her life slipping through her fingers, and it's getting harder to remember why she's even here.

"Precisely. You will be photographed tonight in that…outfit…and when you leave in the morning, you will be seen in the same." Regina's smirk turns sly as she glances over at Killian, who at least has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable with Emma's obvious displeasure.

"So, I'll be leaving. I trust you two can handle this. Killian, remember the rest of my instructions." Regina turns on her sharp heel, striding out of the house without a glance at either of them.

The house suddenly feels very big and very empty.

Emma smiles nervously at Killian, reminding herself that to a degree, he's as much a pawn in this as she is. "Do you at least have a spare toothbrush?" she asks hesitantly, not quite ready to joke about it.

She knows spending the night at his house was in the cards for them at some point. She just thought she'd have more time to get used to the idea – or, you know, pack her own toothbrush and something to sleep in.

His fingers thread through the short hair at nape of his neck, tugging lightly before he turns to her with a sigh. "Swan, I know this is a mite bit uncomfortable right now, but I hope we can at least become friends or it's going to be a very long year. Regina may have failed to fill you in, but I suspected she may have done as much. There's a toothbrush and other items you may need at your disposal. If you don't like the room I've set you up in, you're free to choose another."

There's something sad about the words, something bruised, and she doesn't like it one bit because it does that thing to her again, where her heart aches, where her fingers itch to reach out and soothe him, but she shoves her hands in her pockets instead. "Okay. Should we, uh, go then?"

The smirk returns, and he nods, gesturing toward the door as he shoves on a pair of beat up Chucks. "Lead on, my lady." She rolls her eyes and tells herself there is nothing endearing about a man worth millions wearing a pair of well-loved cheap shoes.

His car is ridiculously expensive, but Emma can't help a sigh of pleasure at the buttery soft leather seats. The Bug's seats are old and cracked, and they pinch her thighs sometimes where the leather has broken apart. Not Killian's car. It's some sort of over-priced, sleek sports car, wine colored paint on the exterior and black leather on the interior.

He turns the music up, ( _classic rock_ ) lets the windows down, and drives. She expects him to tear around the narrow roads, whip them around the switchbacks and sharp corners, but he doesn't. He drives aimlessly, one hand loosely wrapped around the steering wheel while he sings along to whatever is playing on the radio.

"I didn't know you could sing," she blurts out, regarding him curiously as they start to work their way out of the hills, crossing over the freeway and climbing again.

He stops, casting a sideways glance at her as he takes a particularly sharp turn. "Aye, a bit. Thought of making a go of it, but I landed a movie role instead. Seemed best not to tempt fate."

She nods, keeping the rest of her thoughts to herself. When he speaks to her alone like this, she can see the man he wants to be, the quietly driven man who works hard and doesn't disappoint people. She has a hard time reconciling this man with the drunk in Regina's office that first day, or the party boy falling out of bars in the tabloid photos, but it seems it's just one of his many secrets.

Thinking of the tabloid photos reminds her of what they're doing, and she stares out the window, wondering where along their route some photographer lays in wait with a telephoto lens to capture yet another blurry image of them together. She does her best to smooth out the frown lines, to keep her face at least neutral – she's never been the sort to hold a plastered on smile for long.

She's surprised when he stops, pulling over on a narrow patch of dirt and gravel. They're somewhere off Mulholland (she thinks) and the city is spread out beneath them in an endless array of lights.

It's beautiful, and it's not at all what she expected.

"C'mon," he says quietly, getting out of the car and coming around to open the door for her. She takes his hand reluctantly, shivering in the breeze as he hops the gate blocking their entrance to the lookout point, a sign openly stating it closes at dark.

"Aren't we supposed to be staying _out_ of trouble?"

"No one is going to bother us, Swan. I come up here all the time." He takes her hand, helping her over the gate and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Cold?"

"I'm okay." She glances around, forcing herself not to shrug off his arm. "Where are the photographers?"

"Haven't the slightest idea. Regina set that all up." He shrugs, pulling her a fraction closer as the wind rises once more. "I want to show you the view."

"There's a great view from your house."

"Aye. This is better."

He's right, of course, the vantage point offering them a clear line of sight directly into the heart of the city. She can trace the freeways by the glow of red brake lights, the yellowish glow of headlights and the buildings that make this town so famous of a backdrop.

He's behind her now, his arms folded around her, keeping her back to his chest, shielding her from the wind. She should put some distance between them since this doesn't seem to be a part of the photography expedition, but he's warm and solid, and for all she knows, there _are_ cameras around.

They don't stay long, the wind eventually making her shiver and the heat of his body against hers only offering so much protection. He's quiet on the walk back to the car, and even when they start driving again, heading back toward his house, he isn't saying much.

"Why did you bring me up here?" she asks suddenly, wondering if he's regretting allowing her into a personal space ( _I come up here all the time_ ).

What she sees on his face is anything but regret. No, instead it's a deep sadness etched into his features, a loneliness she knows all too well.

"I told you, love. This doesn't have to be…I wanted you to see a bit of who I really am. I understand I did not make the most favorable impression in Regina's office when we met. I'm many things, Swan. Aye, a man with a tenuous hold on his temper with a bit of a drinking problem on occasion. But I am also a man who goes into the hills on nights he can't sleep to watch the bright lights of the city below."

"I bake when I can't sleep," she offers in return, attempting to lighten the mood with a gentle nudge to his abs, the mood turning heavy with his brutally honest words. "Though I doubt cupcakes are on the approved diet?"

He grins, the melancholy wiped from his features. "I'm currently unemployed, love. I've got all the time in the world to work off whatever treats you should like to create."

"You do have a much nicer kitchen than I do." It's the understatement of the century. Emma is always shocked when she can pull anything out of her oven that isn't raw on one side and burnt on the other, but she's had years of sleepless nights to catalogue its imperfections and adjust accordingly.

She bets Killian's oven doesn't require her to rotate the pan every three minutes.

"Then I shall see it stocked with whatever your heart desires for your late-night endeavors. Regina made it clear you were to be staying…a bit more often."

"You could help," she says after a hesitation, the gates of his home coming into view as they round the bend. "If you're awake, I mean. And you're not out yourself, because I know it's got to be weird for you having me in the house all of a sudden, and I'm sure Regina will want us to do this _a lot_ , and…"

"That sounds lovely, Swan." He cuts off her rambling, but he does it gently as the gates swing open and he pulls the car up near the door. She tries to ignore how ridiculous her shabby Bug looks sitting there bedside the house and his car, swallowing thickly and turning her attention elsewhere.

Killian is watching her as she gets out of the car, a curious expression on his face. "What?" she asks, self-conscious enough without him staring at her.

He opens his mouth to speak, but he stops, and she sees it, the moment he decides to close himself off from whatever he was about to say. He smirks instead, that charming, decadent smirk he's so famous for as he gestures to the house. "You should know I'm partial to chocolate is all."

* * *

How does their night go? Next chapter will reveal that one! Thank you as always to the lovely oncepromised for the beta run / typo catching.

Thank you to everyone who sent well wishes on the final exam - I think it went okay! And either way, that damn class is over. Next class starts next Friday, because I am foolish and signed up for two summer session classes.

And now, for a Friday afternoon conference call no one wants to be on...feel free to entertain me with your thoughts on the chapter :)

Next chapter Sunday! (Don't worry, I'll post it early in the day so as not to interfere with the finale that will slay us all.)


	4. Chapter 4

"So, anything left on the Regina list of demands?" she asks as they walk into the house, the night air growing chilly with the breeze from the open windows. She runs her palms over her bare arms, shivering in spite of herself.

If only she'd thought to bring warmer clothes. But then again, no one _told_ her she would be here all damn night.

He frowns, his glance skimming over her. While his eyes linger on her bared legs a tad longer than they should, there's genuine concern in his expression. "Cold, Swan?"

"I'm okay."

"You're a poor liar." He runs his finger lightly over her arm, the goosebumps direct evidence against her. But there's fire in his gaze when she looks up, an intensity she doesn't expect. "Let us make a bargain, love. While so much of what is between us is a lie for the rest of the world, I won't lie to you. You won't lie to me. That is how we'll get through this."

She nods, too unsettled by the fierceness of the words to do much more.

When he asks her again if she's cold, she mutters _kinda_.

She follows him into the house, past a living room with a massive fireplace and huge windows open to the view below. He's right – the view from the lookout is better, but there's not a whole lot wrong with this one, either. But he's still moving, so she hurries to catch up.

They pass a room with double doors, one cracked open just enough to reveal a bedroom – his, she's guessing, by the dark woods and earthy colors. He stops another door down, gesturing almost shyly to the room beyond.

"This will be your room, while you're present, should you find it satisfactory."

"I'm sure it's fine." She smiles up at him, swallowing the comment on the tip of her tongue – this bedroom in his house is probably bigger ( _and much nicer_ ) than her entire apartment. But she's not going to invite his pity by reminding him of how desperate she was for cash to take this job – and she's not going to remind him that she's being _paid_ to be here. They're getting along too well tonight to ruin it with cold reality. No, they're not lovers – they never will be that – but maybe they could be friends.

It's been a long time since Emma has had anyone in her life she could call a friend.

"If you want to, um, make sure you've got everything you require, I'll just fetch you something warmer." He smiles, that nervous, shy smile again, and she realizes in this moment that despite everything else going on around them, this situation has put him off balance almost as much as it has her. It's an odd comfort, but it's a comfort nonetheless.

She steps into the room as he disappears back down the hall, her eyes widening. Houses like this practically come with a decorator, but she's still awed by the creams and soft greens, the thick carpet under her feet.

The room is definitely bigger than her apartment.

She runs her fingers over the surfaces as she moves, the soft comforter and the hard plastic edge of the flat screen TV mounted on the wall. It seems surreal to think of this as _her_ room, but she's realized over the last few hours she's going to be spending a lot of time in this house over the next year.

There's two doors set into one of the walls, the first revealing a small walk-in closet. The other leads to a bathroom done up in white and the palest shade of green, glass tiles that remind her of sea glass covering what looks to be a very luxurious shower. True to his word, he's laid out a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash and small bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

"Everything to your liking?" His voice startles her, and she nearly collides into his chest as she turns in the bathroom doorway. Her face flushes, embarrassed at being caught so lost in her thoughts and crashing into him.

He can't help but notice the pink in her cheeks, and he struggles not to let it make a difference, not to let it add to the clamor inside his head insisting this could be something more than a job they have both signed up for. He's seen the flicker of interest in her eyes, and there's _something_ between them – he felt it the moment her hands hit his shoulders in the pool.

But she's skittish as a stray, and this is a lot for her to take in without him trying to change the rules of the game, so he holds out the T-shirt and sweats he pulled out for her, firmly ignoring that he's offering up one of his favorite shirts just because he wants to see it on her.

No, he won't think about what she might look like with sleep-mussed hair, lean legs exposed in just that T-shirt.

She notices the bundle of clothing in his hands and her eyes dart away, focusing on yet another wall of glass with a view to the city beyond. "Yeah, everything's fine. Can you see the valley from all the rooms?"

"Almost." There's something wistful in his tone, but when she turns back to him, it's gone. "Here." He hands over the jumble of fabric, soft cotton sliding under her fingers. "I intend to light a fire, if you'd like to come out to the living room once you've changed. It will get quite chilly up here with the sun down."

"Is that an invitation or is this a Regina's list thing?"

The spark of mischief dances into his expression, his lip curling in a smirk. "A bit of both, love."

He slips out of the room, and she can't help but watch him go, his shoulders snug in his T-shirt. She shakes herself out of it, turning her attention to the clothes in her hand.

They're his. Of _course_ they're his. She's not sure if it makes her feel better he doesn't keep a random stock of women's clothing in his home, or if it's awkward that he's handing off his clothes already. But then again, she's supposed to be his ( _fake_ ) girlfriend so she should probably get used to wearing some of his stuff. That's what girlfriends do, right?

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Emma, they're just clothes!" she mutters to herself under her breath, yanking the T-shirt over her head and grabbing the soft sweatpants. The shirt is far from whatever designer overpriced monstrosity she expected, but instead a well-worn piece of fabric with a faded DUBLIN spelled out across the chest.

And it smells like him.

Trying not to read too much into it, she yanks the drawstring of the pants until they almost fit, resolving not to make any sudden movements, just in case.

She finds him in the living room as promised, a small blaze in the fireplace. He's sitting on the couch, his feet on the carved coffee table and a bottle of wine next to them. The girl who spent plenty of winters in Boston judges them a little for their fire when it's hovering right over fifty-five outside, but she's lived in California long enough to want the fire anyway.

"Thanks for the clothes," she mutters, taking a seat with a solid two feet separating them. "Much warmer."

His eyes slide over the empty space between them, but he doesn't say anything, instead reaching for the wine. She's nervous again, the ease of their car ride fleeing in the face of being in his home, alone with him.

Wearing his damn clothes.

He hands her a glass of wine, and she gulps it without tasting it, only to hear his low chuckle. "Easy, lass. A good wine is meant to be savored."

Her eyes lock on his over the glass and with a deliberate stare, she drains the rest of the wine.

"You're a stubborn one." He shakes his head at her, but takes her glass anyway, splashing a bit more wine into it before handing it back.

"I don't like being told what to do."

"Aye, I'm learning." He leans into the couch cushions, one arm over the back while the other hand holds his own glass of wine. He sips slowly, watching her in the firelight. "I'm afraid we do still have an item on our to-do list this evening."

"Right. I almost forgot. Regina left you with _instructions_?" She mimics his manager's curt tone, and it draws another chuckle from him.

"Aye." He slides his phone out of his pocket, idly twirling it in his hands. "I am to put up a sufficiently vague photo on Instagram." He says it like he's been told to walk through a pit of vipers.

"Sufficiently vague? What does that even mean?"

"We're to figure that out, she says. Something that hints at you being here, but doesn't show your lovely face just yet."

"I'm surprised you even have an Instagram account."

He shrugs, a flicker passing over his expression before the smirk returns. "Mostly, it's just a part of the job. Occasionally I find something else worth showing the world."

She holds out her wine glass with a sigh. "Here, take a picture of the fire with the two wine glasses. Problem solved. Neither one of us has to be in the photo."

"She said it had to be obvious it was you."

"Obvious it's me _and_ sufficiently vague?"

He grins, nodding. "Aye, that's the rub."

"Well, what's your great idea?"

She shouldn't have asked, because his expression turns thoughtful, his eyes raking over her before his grin turns downright smug. "You happen to be wearing one of my favorite T-shirts. I've been photographed in it many a time."

She glares at him, glancing down at the placement of the big, block letters, ignoring that he's given her one of his favorite shirts to wear completely. "You are _not_ posting a picture of my boobs for all the world to see. No way."

"Oh, c'mon, Swan. It's vague but _quite_ obvious. And they're lovely."

"Thanks?" She takes another deep gulp from her glass of wine, squeezing her eyes shut. Why couldn't Regina have been more direct in her orders? Is this supposed to be some odd sort of team building exercise, leaving them to figure it out on their own? Or some sort of test, to see if she's able to exercise sufficient influence to prevent him from posting something stupid?

"If you would be willing to lend me your undergarments, I could take a picture of them on my bed," he offers, all false innocence in spite of the audacious grin he's sporting when her eyes snap open in alarm. "Quite obvious, that."

"Absolutely not!" She can feel her face heating up, whether from the wine or the thought of him anywhere _near_ her undergarments, she isn't sure – but there's no way she's allowing _that_ sort of photo for all the world to see.

"Let's have your suggestions, now, then. I've made two and you've but the one."

"You are unbelievable." The alcohol is working its way into her system, loosening her tenuous control on herself. It's hard to remember she's here doing a job, that she's supposed to be on her best behavior. But it doesn't _feel_ like work.

He raises his phone without warning, snapping a picture of her scowl before she has a chance to protest.

"Hey!" She quickly sets the wine glass down, lunging for the phone while he holds it out of her reach. "She said subtle, Jones! Not plaster my face all over the internet with messy hair!"

"Your, as you say, messy hair makes you look like you've been thoroughly ravished." He turns the screen so she can see it, holding it too far away for her to delete the photo. And damn him, because her windswept hair does look a whole lot like something else in the firelight with a wineglass in her hand.

"Please don't post that."

"Provide me another option."

She sighs, staring into the fire. His feet, still encased in those worn Chucks, are propped on the coffee table and obscuring her view, but it gives her an idea. "Take a picture of the fire with our feet just barely visible."

He raises his eyebrow, regarding her as though she's suggested he photograph the inside of his ear. " _Feet_?"

"Yes. Here, give me your phone." She moves across the couch, settling next to him and ignoring how easy it is to let her body mold to his, holding her hand out expectedly. He hesitates, but he hands the phone over with a curious lift of his brow, watching as with a nudge of her foot, she throws one leg over his and then leans back to try to get the angle right.

She pretends not to notice how his arm slips from the back of the couch to her shoulders, holding her tucked against his side as she works. It takes a few tries, but then she holds his phone up, triumphant.

"Here. You can barely see my foot. Clearly not a guy foot. Put some caption on it about enjoying a quiet night at home by the fire."

He stares at the phone screen, then back at her before sighing. "If Regina doesn't approve, I'm blaming you, Swan."

"Just do it."

He grumbles a bit more under his breath, but his fingers are moving over the screen. "Done," he tells her, tossing the phone down on the couch cushion and leaning his head back.

"The to do list or the photo?"

"Both."

"Great." She starts to slide away, back to her side of the couch, but his hand on her shoulder tightens ever so slightly.

"You can stay, Swan. We might as well get used to being near each other. You're going to have to kiss me eventually, you know. We could practice." That grin of his is back, the smirk that invites her to break her own rules.

"I hardly need practice. Are you telling me your kissing skills are that poor?" She can't help but challenge him, hoping to knock him down a peg. He's much too smug right now, and hell if she's going to let him get to her anymore than he already has.

He doesn't answer right away, and the dismay and indecision in his eyes makes her laugh. "Having trouble deciding if you want to brag some more or insult yourself to keep up this ridiculous pretense of practicing?"

That _does_ make him laugh, a deep rumble she can feel in his chest pressed as close as she is. "Touché, Swan."

His phone lights up next to him, and he glances down at it with a sigh. "Regina," he says by way of explanation right before he answers.

She uses the opportunity to slide out from under his grasp, watching the dance of the flames while trying not to listen to his conversation – not that he's doing much talking. She takes another sip of her wine, telling herself she is _not_ nervous about Regina's call and its proximity to the photo that was _her_ idea.

When he finally hangs up, she looks up at him expectedly. He's got an odd expression on his face, partially satisfied and partially sad, but when he catches her eyes on him, he breaks into a grin. "Well done, Swan. We've earned ourselves a gold star."

"Regina approves?"

"Aye." He hands her his phone, where the Instagram masses have already begun making themselves known. She can't help her curiosity as she scrolls through some of the comments. They range from insulting ( _whoever she is, I bet she's just some slut from a bar_ ) to sweet ( _so cute, have a good night)_ , but there are already _hundreds_ of them.

"This photo hasn't been up ten minutes." She hands the phone back to him, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what it is she's gotten herself into. So far, it's seemed fairly mild. She's hung out with him in his pool and gone for a drive, and now they're sitting around drinking wine. In fact, there are moments where she's simply forgotten he's Killian Jones, mega movie star of tabloid fame.

Now perfect strangers are assuming she's a slut because of her _toes_.

It seems a solid indication of what's to come. Suddenly needing to be alone, she sets her wine glass down on the coffee table. "I'm pretty tired," she mumbles, getting to her feet and forcing a smile for his sake. "I'm going to head to bed. What time should I plan to be up in the morning?"

"Whenever you please, love. There's not an agenda I'm aware of."

"So…just go home when I wake up?"

He shrugs, suddenly unwilling to meet her eyes. "Aye, if it suits you. Don't be alarmed if there's a photographer waiting." There's something bitter about the last part, but she turns away because if she sits back down on that couch with him, keeps drinking his wine, she's not sure she's going to make it to her own bed tonight.

Boundaries. That's what they need. A firm line in the sand to keep them from complicating matters.

Emma climbs into the deliciously comfortable bed still wearing his shirt, decidedly ignoring how easily one good breeze can shift the sands of an entire beach.

* * *

Thank you as always to oncepromised on typo patrol.

I'm traveling for work the next two days and the availability of free wifi is questionable, so the Tuesday update may be delayed until Wednesday, BUT I'm going to post a second chapter this afternoon to hold everyone over :)

To all my mom readers - Happy Mother's Day!


	5. Chapter 5

She tosses and turns at first, but eventually falls into a fitful sleep. It's too quiet up here in the hills in this house on a dead end street with views that stretch for miles. Emma is used to the noise of the freeway and her neighbors, the smell of someone else's dinner burning or a passing diesel engine.

All she can smell now is the clean scent of laundry detergent mixed with something else, something decidedly masculine that wafts up from the borrowed shirt.

Her dreams are flashes of images, too scattered to recall but enough to leave her feeling unsettled when she wakes just before the dawn to the silent house. She crawls out of bed, rubbing her arms against the morning's chill and pushing back the curtains to reveal grayish light.

The marine layer hasn't burned off yet, what with the day barely started, and it's gloomy, but Emma doesn't care. It's so rarely like this, melancholy and gray, that she doesn't mind. It reminds her of Boston, which isn't exactly a sunshine walk down memory lane either, but she misses it sometimes all the same.

It's not the city's fault her life there was a shambles.

She heads for the bathroom, debating a shower before heading home. She shouldn't linger here, but really, what's the harm? It's not like she has anything else to do today, and there's no way he's awake yet.

She doubts the pipes in this house creak and howl like a dying animal like they do in her apartment.

The shower is a far cry from the stained and chipped plain white tile she's used to. The pale green glass tiles are artfully combined with a misty gray stone, and if it looks beautiful, the rain showerhead feels even better. The water temperature doesn't suddenly scald her one moment and freeze her the next. She can't help but simply stand there for a few long moments, eyes sliding closed, wondering how the hell she's going to give this up when she's fulfilled her duties.

She gives herself a long, hard stare in the foggy mirror as she runs the brush through her hair, piling it into a knot on top of her head. Fancy showers and ridiculously soft towels and sheets are nice, but none of this is _hers_. She'll do well to remember that.

She redresses, but it's still cool, and with a shrug, she yanks his shirt back over her tank top. It's not like he doesn't know where to find her, or how to get it back. She needs to leave, before he wakes up. What if he offers to make her breakfast? Or worse, what if he asks her what she's still doing in his house?

Resolved to make a quick escape, Emma slips into the hallway, but she can't help herself as she walks past the open door to his bedroom. He's sprawled across the bed, shirtless, and his arm flung over his eyes. There's tension in his body, and for a split second, she debates waking him, but the thought is banished just as quickly.

Whatever is troubling him, it's not her concern.

Dreaming of a hot cup of coffee, she shoves her feet into her shoes kicked off by the door last night, fishes her keys out of her bag and swings open the front door. Her eyes are on the steps, damp from the overnight dew, and she hears the clicking and the sound of voices before her coffee-lacking brain catches up.

In one horrified moment, she lifts her eyes to discover a half dozen paparazzi are camped outside Killian's gate, and they're all _very_ eagerly taking pictures of her. She freezes, their catcalls barely registering as she realizes with a dim horror that not only is it barely seven in the morning, but she's wearing Killian's shirt and she's clearly just showered by her damp hair.

It takes another endless, frozen span of seconds to decide whether to plow past these idiots or to flee back into the house. There's a very real appeal in getting into the Bug and tearing through the pack of them, but the trouble is, it's not _entirely_ Emma's decision.

For all she knows, Regina sent them.

So she waves like an idiot, walking to her car like she's come out to get something from it, her face flaming as she ducks behind the car and leans over like she's looking for something before going back into the house.

Killian is waiting for her, bare-chested, arms crossed and looking mighty irritated. She stops short when she sees him, a cold fury boiling in his gaze as his stormy eyes meet hers.

"I…" She swallows thickly, her palms flattening on the door behind her, because she's not quite _afraid_ of him, but the look in his eyes _is_ terrifying. "I'm sorry, I…"

"Why are you apologizing, Swan?" He raises an eyebrow at her, gesturing angrily toward the door. "Did you call that pack of rabid dogs to my gate?"

"No, of course not! I was just…"

"Aye, of course not. Regina warned me, as I told you last evening, there may be a photographer. Not the whole bloody lot of them!"

She smiles weakly, leaning her head back against the door. "Well, they got what they wanted. Lots and lots of pictures of me with my soaked hair and lack of makeup and…" She glances down, sighing heavily. "And wearing your shirt."

His gaze follows hers, and he lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Marvelous, Swan." He scrubs one hand over his face, the weariness showing for a fraction of a second before he carefully composes himself. "I'm sure we'll be hearing from Regina shortly. In the meanwhile, since we're up…breakfast?"

She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder to the small window that overlooks the driveway. She can't see the gate from here, but she knows they're still there, and a part of her wants to get in her car and drive away from this house as fast as she possibly can.

But that isn't really an option. She signed up for this, whether she fully understood it at the time or not.

"Got any chocolate chips?" she asks weakly, pushing away from the door after dropping her bag beside it.

"Let us go find out." He sweeps his hand toward the kitchen, and she follows his lead, offering up one more small smile as she passes him.

They didn't make it to the kitchen last night, but it's the sort of kitchen Emma has dreamed of. It's light and airy, the hazy early morning light streaming through the windows onto spacious stone counters and sleek appliances. She runs her fingers lightly over the dark, polished wood of the cabinets, her eyes tracking him as he opens the fridge and starts pulling things out.

"If there's chocolate, you'll find it just there." He points to a spot along the wall of cabinets, and Emma crosses the kitchen to investigate. She's surprised to find baking supplies – plenty of flour and sugar and _chocolate_ stocked.

"I would have thought your kitchen would have little more than beer – sorry, rum – in it," she says with a teasing smile as she turns back to him with the flour and chocolate chips. He's already laid eggs, butter, and milk on the counter, and a part of her can't help but feel how in sync they are with each other, in spite of the tension caused by the photographers.

Neither of them _said_ pancakes, but here they, assembling the supplies all the same.

He emerges from behind the refrigerator door, a package of bacon in his hand. "You shouldn't believe everything you read in a magazine," he replies, his eyes settling on hers with a quiet intensity that goes far beyond the simple words.

Her cheeks flame, because the comment _didn't_ come from any magazine article, but more from the impression she's gotten of him over the last several days. Still, she keeps her mouth shut, watching as he starts pulling out pans and mixing bowls.

"Pancakes or bacon?" he asks, his hands flat on the counter as he looks up at her with a challenge.

"Um, both obviously."

"Excellent answer, Swan. I knew I liked you." His grin is cheeky, and he _winks_ at her, but he gestures to their supplies and asks his question again. "What I meant was would you like to prepare the pancakes or the bacon?"

"Pancakes," she answers automatically, reaching for the mixing bowl he's produced. "I make excellent pancakes."

"We'll see about that. My bacon frying skills are second to none."

"It's pretty hard to fuck up bacon."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"If you fuck up the bacon, you have to eat it too. I've learned enough about you to know you've got a better sense of self-preservation than that." She gives him a playful nudge with her elbow before starting to measure ingredients. "I suppose your fancy kitchen has a griddle?"

He grins back, and they fall into an easy rhythm moving around each other while Emma flips pancakes and Killian stands next to her, carefully turning the bacon without splattering the pair of them with grease.

She feels his eyes on her, struggles not to look up, not to let this scene of domesticity get to her. They're going to eat meals together – that's what happens when two people spend as much time together as they're expected to. The fact that they easily move together in the kitchen is not something worth dreaming up a romance in her head about – it's just breakfast.

But it's just so damn _easy_ to be around him.

She's just flipped the last of the pancakes onto a plate when his phone starts ringing, an instant scowl appearing on his face when he looks down at the screen. "Regina again," he grumbles, turning away without picking it up. "She can leave a message."

"Maybe you should…"

"Swan, in this house, we eat the bacon and the pancakes while they're hot." He gives her a gentle nudge with his hip toward the back patio, protected by the house from being seen by their driveway guests.

She can't help the smile tugging at her lips, even as she rolls her eyes at him. It's a careful balancing act they perform, moving the plates of bacon and pancakes to the back patio along with coffee mugs and utensils, but Emma sighs at the sheer pleasure of breakfast outside, the view of the city stretched below.

He compliments her pancakes, and she insults his bacon, just to tease him even as she happily munches on it. His smirk tells her he's fully aware she's a poor liar, and it's a peaceful thirty minutes of quiet chatter that fades into a comfortable silence as they each sip their coffee.

He groans as he gets to his feet, patting his flat stomach and eyeing her with a fondness even she can't mistake. "I do believe I'll enjoy having you around, Swan. It will be worth the extra time in the gym."

She laughs, gathering up plates and following him back into the kitchen. "I've never had time to go to a gym. I suppose now that it's my job to be your girlfriend of leisure, maybe I'll give it a try."

His smile fades for a split second, but then it's back, just a little too bright. She wants to ask, but she doesn't, because she knows – they've been having such a nice morning together, and she's just pointed out the elephant in the room: it's her job to be here.

"Regina has called five times," he says mildly as he sets the dishes down. "I suppose I should be calling her back."

"Of course. I'll clean up." She shoos him away with a wave of her hand, and he disappears down the hall toward his bedroom with his phone, his shoulders already tensed.

Even _cleaning_ is easier in his kitchen, a large dishwasher at her disposal as she rinses their plates and utensils, carefully pouring the bacon grease into a makeshift cup of tinfoil to harden. He still hasn't returned by the time she's finished, so she starts another pot of coffee, listening to it sputter and drip as she leans back against the counter and stares out the windows, unable to shake a singular thought.

This is just the beginning.

* * *

With three hours to spare before the finale, hope y'all enjoy this!

Next chapter as soon as the travel schedule permits :)


	6. Chapter 6

"Everything okay?" she asks as he returns to the patio, his face twisted into a scowl. He's been gone a long time – long enough that Emma's second cup of coffee is nearly finished.

She's been debating leaving, feeling awkward on his patio without him. But the damn photographers still crowd the gate, and she's not sure what she's supposed to be doing now – is she staying or is she going?

That fact that it's not entirely her decision anymore will take some getting used to.

Killian stares at her for a long moment, still silent, and she shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny. He's taken a shower, gotten dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and it somehow breaks the peace between them – as though her and her lingering cup of coffee have overstayed her welcome.

"Regina is pleased," he finally says, his phone clattering onto the patio table and as he slides into a chair next to her, his eyes on the horizon. "Those photos they took of you earlier are already all over the online rags."

He's still tense, quiet in spite of what he's said. Emma's spent enough time reading people to know he's holding something back, that there's more to his lengthy conversation with his manager than he's letting on.

But she stays silent, sipping the last of her coffee and watching a bird catching an air pocket, soaring upward before plunging back down. Pushing him won't get her anywhere – she's learned enough about him to know he'll do what he pleases, in his own time.

Eventually, he sighs, leaning back in his seat and scrubbing his palm over his eyes. "There's an event on Friday. We're to attend together."

"Okay," she agrees easily enough, shrugging. "What time should I be here?"

His eyes pop open, deep blue orbs filled with troubled thoughts. "We need to leave by five. She wants you here at noon."

"Noon?"

"Bloody hell, Emma, that's what I said isn't it?" he snaps, his palms returning to his eyes and the tension high in his shoulders.

"Whatever your problem is, you don't get to take it out on me." The words are quietly said, but with a sharp edge. Emma sets her coffee mug gently on the patio table, struggling withl her self control so as not to throw the remaining contents in his face.

She gets up from her chair, yanking off his T-shirt and throwing it at him in spite of it being a cool day. It lands in his lap, but she's not paying attention to him anymore as she heads for the door.

His fingers close around her wrist at the last moment, his sigh heavy. "I'm sorry."

She stops, closes her eyes, counts to ten, and then turns back to him. "Look, I know this relationship isn't real, but you _can_ talk to me. We said no lies, right? What's bothering you?"

"I don't enjoy using people."

"If you're talking about me, it's hardly being used when your manager insisted on paying me a ridiculous amount of money for doing this."

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, love." The words are especially bitter, but his fingers are still curled around her wrist, his thumb lightly stroking her skin. "Your life, Emma…it isn't your own anymore. I understand you think you've made a bargain with Regina, that your life belongs to her and to me. But it's not ours either. It's _theirs._ " He nods toward the front of the house, his expression darkening.

"I can take care of myself, Killian."

"Aye, I suppose you can." He releases her wrist, but his eyes catch on hers, worry and concern flooding his expression. "Promise me one thing, love. Don't read the rubbish they print about us. It will drive you mad."

His sour mood clicks as soon as he says it, and she narrows her eyes, reaching into her pocket for her phone. "They said something, didn't they? Something you didn't like?"

"Don't." His fingers curl around hers, stopping her from typing anything further on the phone's screen. "It wasn't about me. It was about you. It wasn't kind, and it's not true."

"So you expect me to not go look this up, whatever they said, after you act like this?"

"It won't make a difference. They're going to write what they're going to write. Some of it will be pleasant. Some of it will be bloody awful. The majority of it will be completely made up. Please. Don't do it to yourself."

She sighs, sliding her phone back into her pocket. It's going to be an interesting exercise in self-control to not google herself after this conversation, but she supposes he's right. "Okay, fine. I won't look. Tell me more about Friday."

His scowl returns, his eyes leaving hers to focus on the gloomy horizon. "One of my mates has a movie premiere. I'd forgotten I was invited. Regina reminded me. She says it's the perfect opportunity for us to introduce you to the world since it's not my movie and there won't be press expectations. Just photos."

"That doesn't sound so bad." She's trying not to let her nervousness show, because between the paparazzi and a movie premiere, reality is rapidly catching up to her. Of course, she has nothing even remotely appropriate to wear to a movie premiere, but she'll figure something out. There are websites that rent out designer dresses – she can probably get one by Friday. She knows Regina told her he would be paying for anything she needed, but she just can't bring herself to walk into a store where one dress exceeds a month's rent and blow his money on it.

"Dave's been prattling on about this movie for some time. Riding horses and swinging a sword is his bit, I suppose, and it's another of those." His mood shifts again, and he grins up at her, filled with an amused challenge. "We'll have to be extra careful around him, love. We've been mates a long time. He won't be easy to fool."

"I'm not worried." She rolls her eyes, glancing back at the house. "I should go, though. I really need clean clothes."

He nods, getting to his feet. "I'll walk you out."

She smirks as he follows her into the house, watching him suspiciously as she grabs her bag from where she left it next to the door. "Are you being a gentleman, or are you about to pull something in front of the cameras?"

He flashes her a grin, swinging open the door as she slides her sunglasses over her eyes. "A bit of both, love."

She's afraid he's going to kiss her in front of all the photographers, afraid she won't be able to compose herself appropriately, but in the end all he does is open her car door for her and kiss her cheek, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes with his back to the gate. "I'll see you Friday, Swan. Noon." He steps back as she pulls her door shut, turning the key to start the engine. "If they get in your way, run them over," he tacks on, gesturing toward the gate.

She laughs, rolling her eyes as she drives away. It's a blinding burst of flashbulbs as she crosses over the threshold, but she makes a clean enough getaway with a few well-executed turns and cutting down an alley.

Her past is proving useful today.

It's a relief when she closes her apartment door behind her, sinking back against the chipped paint and trying not to feel hemmed in by such a tiny place after the evening with Killian in his beautiful, spacious home.

For the first time in her life, she finds herself oddly grateful she doesn't have family to ask about her new boyfriend. She frowns, glancing down at her chipped and bitten nails. How is she ever going to be presentable enough to walk a red carpet next to that man?

The answer comes soon enough.

She arrives at Killian's house just before noon on Friday, more nervous than she has any right to be. The dress she rented is carefully folded across the backseat, and it doesn't fit _quite_ right everywhere, but she's hoping no one will notice. It's plain and black, and she has no idea why she needs to be here so early, but maybe Regina wants to supervise her applying her makeup or give her a lecture on how to behave herself.

Emma already knows what her job is – stand next to him, smile, and keep her mouth shut.

There's more cars in the driveway than normal when she pulls up, but Emma doesn't question it. Who knows what his routine is before a big event – she's heard all sorts of crazy stories in this town.

At least the gate isn't lined with photographers today.

Emma sighs, grabbing her bag and carefully holding the dress. She's thought ahead this time – everyone will expect her to stay the night at his house after their evening out. So not only does she have what little makeup she owns, but she's got some comfortable clothes to wear in the morning, pajamas, and her own toiletries.

It doesn't change that it feels awfully strange bringing an overnight bag to his house without having been invited to stay yet.

She lets herself in with the key that still feels awkward in her hand, surprised to find the house relatively quiet. "Killian?" she calls as she walks toward the guest room he's told her is hers - it's too strange still to think of it as _her_ room. There's no reply, so she lays the dress down carefully on the bed, drops her bag and goes off in search of him.

He's out on the patio, surrounded by a group of people Emma doesn't recognize as actors, but they have that _in the business_ look to them. Everyone is laughing, and most of them have a beer in hand. Even Regina looks relaxed, a smile playing on her lips as she sips at a glass of wine.

"Emma!" He flashes her a brilliant smile when he sees her, gesturing for her to come out onto the patio. "You've finally arrived, love. I've missed you." His voice is sweet, _too_ sweet, and Emma realizes quickly by Regina's cold stare that the people on the patio are her first test.

"Missed me? I was only gone for a few hours," she teases, crossing to settle onto his lap and pluck his beer from his fingers. She takes a deep drink from it, her eyes latching onto his. She's surprised to see amusement there, a hint of a challenge as she drinks his beer and leans into his chest.

He smirks as she hands the bottle back, his arm sliding around her waist and his hand settling low on her hip. "There are more in the fridge, Swan."

"I know. I like drinking yours." She offers him the sweetest smile she can manage before leaning her head against his shoulder. She's doing her best to give the appearance of absolute comfort, despite her thoughts racing – is she putting too much weight on his leg? Should she even be sitting on his lap? And who _are_ all these people?

He sighs heavily, like a man who's been most put out, but their routine works because while the people around them shoot them curious glances, she can see that other look, that look that's usually followed by _awww, how cute_.

"Well, if you're about done thieving my beverage, love, these fine folks have come to help you get ready for the premiere tonight." He gestures with the beer bottle to the group surrounding them, his hand tightening just slightly on her hip. "I thought you might enjoy a bit of pampering."

"Thanks, baby." She leans closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek, lingering as far as the group is concerned, hissing _what the hell_ into his ear.

By pampering, it turns out he means Regina - because she's positive this is _not_ his doing - has hired a team of minions to get her into presentable shape. She shouldn't have bothered renting a dress – the stylist has brought along ten different options, all of them equally gorgeous.

It's a moment of profound embarrassment on her part - what on earth made her think her rental dress and drug store makeup were going to be satisfactory for a Hollywood event? Of _course_ Regina hired a team of people to whip her into shape. Her spine crawls with discomfort at the realization of her naiveté.

They've set up shop in Killian's bedroom, which startles her until she thinks about it logically – as far as they know, this is also _her_ bedroom in this house. She says a silent thanks to the universe for whatever made her drop her things in the guest room before she came to find him, because she has no idea how she would explain that.

He comes in as they're zipping her into her dress, a sway to his step that makes her wonder just how much he's had to drink while she's been poked and prodded and made up. She likes what they've done with her hair, the way it cascades down her back in soft waves – but the fake eyelashes and layers upon layers of makeup make her uncomfortable.

Not that she has any say in the manner.

He smiles at her, a hint of a leer in the expression, but the makeup artist blocks his path. "You will not touch my masterpiece," he tells him, much to Killian's apparent dismay as his smile fades into a pout. Even Emma isn't quite sure if he's genuinely disappointed he's being told to keep away from her, or if it's all part of the act.

"You look lovely, darling," Killian tells her, shoving his hands in his pockets with all the appearance of a man who's having a hard time keeping his hands to himself.

"She looks fucking amazing." Emma can't help but laugh at the makeup artist's outburst. She can't remember his name – there's been four or five of them working on her this afternoon and she keeps getting them mixed up – but she's decided he's wonderful. "You, on the other hand, Mr. Jones…less rum, more suit."

Killian waves him off, disappearing into his closet with a grumble. Emma shakes her head, unable to stop the small smile on her lips. She's seen photos of this man all dressed up for events before – she's positive he's going to be downright sinful in person. Fake relationship or not, she has eyes.

He doesn't disappoint, his jacket fitting perfectly across his shoulders. She lets herself admire him – it's what the room full of people around them would expect, anyway – her eyes lingering on the charcoal fabric skimming his body in a most delicious way.

Regina strides in just as he's sitting down on the edge of his massive bed to put on his shoes, the stylist carefully holding onto Emma's arm as she slides her feet into the heels they've brought her. She finds herself once again thanking her old job – at least she knows how to walk in the sky high shoes without embarrassing herself.

"Jones, you had better be approaching sober" Regina snaps, eyeing him critically before turning to Emma. "Miss Swan, you look stunning. I'm so grateful he's found you. Perhaps it will encourage him to drink a bit less rum in the future before important events." There's an undercurrent to the words, a chilliness in her smile that Emma knows is intentional – a warning if there ever was one.

"Oh, sod off, Regina. I'm perfectly fine." Killian gets to his feet, but Emma can see it, the slight sway, and she frowns. She needs him sober for this – she has no idea what she's doing. She can't manage his drinking _and_ put on a convincing performance in a play where no one's told her her lines.

"It's okay, Regina. I've got him." She crosses the room to him, sliding an arm around his waist and squeezing his side in a tight grip. "We'll be all right together." She smiles so widely her cheeks hurt, even as her nails dig into his bicep.

She can give silent warnings of her own.

Regina stares at them for another long moment before nodding and turning for the door. "The car's out front. Let's go."

Emma expects her to slide into the car alongside them, but the door closes behind Killian and they're alone. She eyes him nervously, smoothing down the skirt of the sleek dress they've put her in. It's bright green silk, soft against her skin, but it slides along her body in an almost scandalous manner.

"That dress does something to your eyes, Swan," he says softly, his thumb catching the edge of the skirt and rubbing against it almost absently. "You really do look wonderful."

"No one's listening," she reminds him as the car starts to move, her eyes drifting toward the window. "You can stop."

"Aye." It's a whisper of a word, and she turns back to him, unable to stop herself from asking.

"Why did you drink all afternoon? You've done this a thousand times."

He shrugs, unwilling to look at her. "It doesn't get easier, this bit."

"Then why do you do it?"

"I love film. I love acting. I don't love standing before a menagerie of parasites answering the same bloody question over and over." She's surprised by the bitterness in his voice, the venom. "I also have no desire to see you hurt, Swan, and I haven't any idea what the vermin will say to you when we walk the carpet tonight."

"I'm sure it will be fine."

And it is, in a manner of speaking. The photographers call to him, ask him about her, but he just smiles that dazzling smile and holds her close, tucked against his side. She's grateful for it, for the way his hand grips her hip, though she grits her teeth when his hand drops from her lower back to her ass in what she guesses is supposed to be a subtle move. Her glance up at him is met with a mischievous smirk, and she smiles back, because she'll get her chance and then he's going to regret it.

They pose together for the cameras, and Emma is trying not to be stiff, and she's trying not to be nervous, but there are _so many_ cameras pointed at her. "You look wonderful, Swan, I mean it," he whispers in her ear, his breath hot on her skin. "This part will be over soon. We don't even have to watch the movie. Hardly anyone does."

She flashes another smile before turning to him, leaning into his arms like she's got a secret for his ears only. "I happen to like your friend's movies. Put your hand on my ass again, and I'm putting the heel of this very pointy shoe through your toes."

Their eyes meet, and very deliberately, his hand once again slides down her back until he's all but grabbing her ass in front of the cameras. "You're going to pay for this," she threatens through her smile, barely moving her lips, but she can feel him chuckle beside her as they finally start to move inside the theater.

"Killian!" His name is called as soon as they step inside, and Emma turns with him to see none other than David Nolan striding across the room in their direction.

"Dave!" The two men embrace each other, all backslapping camaraderie. Emma doesn't know what to do with herself, so she keeps her smile plastered on, trying not to fidget in the shoes which are beginning to hurt her feet. "Where's the wife?" Killian asks as he resumes his place next to Emma, that damn hand of his on her waist again.

She hates that she's hyper aware of his touch, that it's her job to lean into it, because the more contact she has with him, the more she wonders how she's going to make it to her own bed tonight, never mind the rest of the term of her contract.

It's becoming a problem.

"She wasn't feeling up to all this tonight." David smiles at Emma, glancing back at Killian before continuing, "Pregnancy just hasn't been easy for her."

"Aye, mate. I'm sorry to hear it. Allow me to introduce you to Emma?" Killian smiles at her like they're fifteen and she's just agreed to go on a date with him. She shouldn't let it happen, but the look he gives her fills her with an unfamiliar warmth, and she finds herself smiling back.

"Great to see he's met someone sensible," David tells her, shaking her hand in greeting and making a face at his friend. "But I see even you aren't temptation enough to keep him away from his love affair with the rum."

Emma laughs, but it's forced and she doesn't know what else to do. Truthfully, other than a trace of an extra softness in his eyes, Killian hasn't been drunk since they've arrived. The rum he drank at the house had mostly worn off by the time they wound their way out of the hills and sat in the long line of cars to the drop off point. "I'm working on it," is all she says, leaning just a bit closer to him, her grip on him tightening just a fraction.

"Well, I'm sure I'll be seeing more of you. He never brings women to these things, so he must really like you," David says with a wink at his friend. "I'll see you at the after party!" He heads off into the crowd, and Killian stares after him, his face flickering with a fierce longing before the evening's mask slips back into place.

He's silent as they find their seats, and he's silent through the movie, his eyes fixed on the screen and never wavering. Emma tries to ignore his moodiness, to enjoy the movie (which is good) but it's hard not to notice his tension. She knows she shouldn't – it's dark, no one can see them, this isn't part of the act – but she lets her hand fall onto his thigh anyway, curls her fingers into his where they rest on his leg, and squeezes.

He turns to her with surprise, but she just smiles, giving his fingers another squeeze before settling back into her seat. She doesn't pull her hand away, and neither does he, but he calms, and she tries not to read too much into that.

"Do you mind if we skip the party?" he murmurs in her ear as the credits begin to roll and the lights come up.

"These shoes are killing me," she whispers back as he pulls her to her feet by their still joined hands. "We can go home."

It slips out unintentionally – _home_. Emma isn't the sort of person who has a home – she has an apartment. But Killian has a home, and she supposes at least for the night, she's sharing it with him.

She can feel a flush creeping into her cheeks, and she stares at the floor, trying to ignore the odd mix of warmth and embarrassment running through her veins.

But when she finally manages to look up at him, there's a softness to his smile, and his arm loops around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her hair. People are watching them now, but the damnedest thing is that she's pretty sure he would have done it either way.

She takes that information and locks it away. Some thoughts are too dangerous to be left out unattended.

* * *

It's probably unfair of me to say this, but the next chapter has one of my favorite moments between them. Though I was a big fan of the patio scene on this one.

Many thanks to oncepromised for general handholding & to onceuponsomechaos for volunteering to shred these chapters up and help me put them back together better than ever. If you haven't read her Leaving Neverland (over on Ao3), I suggest you do because reasons.

Feel free to entertain me with your lovely comments and tags. I'm stuck in this airport for another 1.5 hours and the free wifi runs out soon...


	7. Chapter 7

It's a quiet ride back to his house, and she expects to find a legion of people waiting for them to collect the borrowed jewelry and shoes and dress, but other than the welcoming lights by the front door, the house is dark and silent.

Emma sighs with relief as the car stops, gathering her heels in one hand and walking barefoot to the door after Killian helps her out. He notices her bare feet, raising an eyebrow as he unlocks the door and holds it open for her. "That's quite the look you've got going, Swan. Regina would be most displeased if she were to see you so."

He's mocking her, but all she does is smirk back at him. "You wear these things for hours and tell me how you like it." She brandishes the beautiful, though painful, shoes at him, making her way down the hall toward her things. "Also, this dress needs to go."

More accurately, the strapless bra digging into her ribs needs to go, but she's not telling him that.

"Will you be needing my assistance?"

She turns midstride, halfway down the hall to meet his leering grin with a roll of her eyes. "It's going to be a long year for you if you keep that up."

"Is it now, _baby_?"

She flushes, remembering her little performance on the patio and throwing up her hands as she stops and turns back to him face him. "I'm not a relationship girl, Killian! I don't know. It seemed like the right thing to say. You've got _love_ and all those other little charming things you say, and I just have…whatever I pull out of my ass."

"It's a fine ass, to be sure." He pauses, his lip curling into that half smirk she knows means he's about to say something especially witty – at least in his mind. "You must realize you just admitted you find me charming."

"You're disgusting." She rolls her eyes again, continuing down the hall to get changed out of the dress. But when she pushes the door to the guest room open, her things are missing.

"What the hell?" she mutters to herself, doing a quick inventory of the rooms. Even her toothbrush is gone from the bathroom.

She heads back into the hall, pushing open his door without stopping to think. He's already got the suit jacket off, the tie hanging undone around his neck as he works open the buttons of the shirt one by one. He's delightfully disheveled, and the sight of him in the suit all night has been one thing, but this is another, and she has to make herself swallow past her suddenly dry throat before she can speak.

"Hey, my things are…missing. Did you happen to put my stuff in another room?" She's standing just inside the door, her palms resting against the wall as she tries not to intrude.

He sighs, gesturing to his closet. "Aye. Well, Regina did." He's bitter again, and it's another long moment before he turns to fully face her. "She moved your things into my closet while we were out. Evidently one of the people here today made some remark about how controlling I must be to keep all trace of you from my home, and since this isn't the last event we'll be getting ready for…"

"So anytime I need any of my things, I have to come in here to get them."

He flashes her a smirk, but he's not putting the full force of his seductiveness behind it, and she knows from that alone he's not exactly thrilled about this either. "You _can_ just stay in here, with me, the nights you're here. There's more than enough room for us both." He gestures around the spacious bedroom, the massive bed behind them. "I assure you, I am capable of being a gentleman."

"Is that why you kept grabbing my ass today?" she snaps, folding her arms across her chest and trying to process this latest development. Having her own room in his house was one thing – a place to escape, a bed to herself. It's more than just privacy – it's a line between them. Sharing a bedroom, sharing a _bed_ , well, that just blurs the line even more.

"You were tense. I meant to tease you a bit, Swan, nothing more." He shrugs, returning to the task of unbuttoning his shirt. "Besides, you're supposed to _want_ me to touch you as far as that lot is concerned." There's an undercurrent to the words, a hint of bitterness that seems to surface every now and again, but Emma ignores it because bitterness and hurt are close bedfellows. Hurt comes with _feelings_ , and she just _can't_ right now.

"So…my clothes are in your closet?"

"Aye."

"Okay. I'm just gonna…" She gestures helplessly toward the closet, awkward as all hell as she moves across his bedroom. It was easier this afternoon with a room full of people, but now it's just them in the house, alone in his bedroom getting undressed.

It feels far too intimate.

He nods, pulling the shirt off to reveal a thin, tight white undershirt that only highlights the lean musculature he's known for. Emma drags her eyes away, heading for the closet in search of her things.

She hasn't been in this room, and she knew it had to be spacious based off the rest of the house, but she wasn't expecting quite _this_ much space. It's not as though it's crammed with things either – maybe a dozen formal suits hang neatly in a row, but a number of the shelves are empty.

Plenty of room for her.

She banishes the thought as quickly as it enters her mind, turning to one of the low shelves to find her bag with a note tucked under it as soon as she picks it up.

 _Appearances are everything, Miss Swan. Separate bedrooms are unacceptable_.

She scowls at the note, crumpling it up and throwing it angrily into the trash. Regina's interference irritates her, and she knows it shouldn't, because _she signed up for this_ , but she's tired and her feet hurt and she's not looking forward to trying to sleep next to him. No matter how appealing the idea is on the surface, it's going to make things even more uncomfortable than they already are.

Her frustration isn't helped by struggling with the zipper of her dress for what must be ten minutes. She's suddenly too tired to care, too tired to _fight_ anything else tonight. "Killian?" she calls, her eyes sliding closed so she doesn't cry from the sheer inability to get out of this dress on her own.

"Are you decent, Swan?" The low rumble of his voice just outside the door makes her shiver in spite of everything, and she scolds herself silently before replying.

"Yes. I can't get the damn zipper of this dress. Can you come in here and help me?"

"Ah, so you _do_ require my assistance undressing." He's teasing, the amusement obvious on his face just before he moves behind her, one hand settling on the nap of her neck to keep her steady as the other tugs on the zipper.

"What's taking so long?" Emma struggles not to fidget, to keep the irritation out of her voice as she holds her hair out of the way. His knuckles barely graze her skin as he struggles with the dress, sending a shiver down her spine. With him so close, it feels impossible to breathe.

"You've gotten it jammed a bit." He keeps muttering under his breath, cursing until the zipper finally gives way. Emma has to grab the top of the dress to keep it from falling, turning as soon as he's gotten the zipper down far enough and stepping back.

"Thank you." She can't look at him, can't look up to see if the same lust-fueled tension she's feeling is going to be reflected back at her. She can't do this with him now, can't get involved with him physically, because Emma Swan does not have a good track record with men, and they have a year to get through together.

If she gives in now, he'll tire of her long before the year is up, and she's already swallowed her pride to come this far. She's committed to this – there will be no backing out or failure allowed.

"You're welcome." He pauses, and she wonders if he's waiting for her to look up, but she just _can't_. Eventually, she hears the soft pad of his feet on the carpet, the opening of a drawer and he returns to his bedroom without another word.

She sighs, letting the dress pool around her feet as she carefully steps out of it. She hangs it up carefully, running her fingers over the soft silk. Emma has never been one for expensive clothes – her line of work doesn't lend itself to it – but there's a buried part of her, a little girl who dreamed of being a princess like so many others, who can't help but sigh over the beautiful dress.

Still, it's a relief to be in her own clothes. She pulls on worn sleep shorts and an old T-shirt from high school, replacing the jewelry worth more than she's ever made in the cases Regina left next to her bag. Someone will come pick the pieces up in the morning – yet another reason she supposes she's here, staying, sleeping in his bed.

She ducks past him into the bathroom, still surprised when she looks in the mirror and catches sight of the makeup and false eyelashes. It's not that she doesn't look pretty, in a way – the makeup is high quality, and they've done a wonderful job, but it's not _her_.

She carefully peels off the eyelashes, scrubs the makeup from her face and then looks back in the mirror, feeling more like her normal self with her freshly washed face looking back at her. Her cheeks are red from the heat of the water, and there are specks of mascara she didn't quite manage to scrub away, but this is the face she knows.

"You really did look stunning tonight," Killian says quietly as she emerges from the bathroom, perched on the edge of the bed waiting for her.

"There was an army of people whose job it was to make sure of that," she says wryly, coming to stand in front of him. She's not sure what else to do – are they going to bed? Does he want to go sit out in the living room with the fire like they did the other night? Does Regina have any other mission for them this evening she doesn't know about?

"You look beautiful right now." His eyes are darker than she's seen them before, blue like summer twilight as he stares up at her, and for a fraction of a second, they blaze to life with fierce desire before the carefully neutral expression returns. "It's been a long day, Swan. Which side of the bed would you prefer?"

"It's your bed. Don't you have a side you like?"

"I prefer to sprawl in the middle of the damn thing." He grins up at her, the playfulness returning. "It could be arranged."

"Yeah, okay." She rolls her eyes, but she's grateful for it, because the weight of his words – _you look beautiful right now_ – was choking her, making her want things she can't want. "I'll just take this side."

His sheets are unbelievably soft, and they smell like him. It's overwhelming as she struggles to get comfortable. There's barely two feet of space between them, and his scent wraps around her, makes it impossible to escape him.

His breathing levels off as he falls asleep, and she envies him, because she's tired but she's not _sleepy_ , and all she's doing is staring at the cream ceiling, listening to him breathe.

She gives up after an hour.

If she were home, this would be a night for making cupcakes. Deep, dark chocolate cupcakes, with thick, fudgy frosting. She's not home, but there has to be something in his house she can rummage up for supplies. She pads into the kitchen, rubbing her arms as the cool night breeze coming through the open windows hits her skin.

It takes some searching to find cupcake tins, but she's pleased to find they're heavy, good quality pieces – though they look suspiciously new. Further investigation of the kitchen cabinets has her standing in front of the open doors, her eyes wide with shock.

He's purchased every sort of baking ingredient she could possibly need, all arranged neatly in what was once a space cluttered with a random assortment of chocolate and candy. There's spices and extracts, powders and cocoas, and she runs her fingers lightly over the labels, astounded.

It's not even a real relationship – they're barely friends – but this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her, and it's all from the smallest of comments. She thought he was joking about stocking the kitchen for her, but she's realizing when it comes to Killian Jones, his jokes are often far more serious than he lets on.

She's still gathering up the ingredients for her cupcake of choice when he stumbles into the kitchen, his hair sticking out every which way, squinting in the light. He smiles softly when he sees what she's about, sliding onto one of the island stools and bracing his forearms on the granite counter.

"Couldn't sleep?" His voice is gravely, just a little rougher around the edges than she's used to, and she will _not_ think about what that voice would sound like first thing in the morning, his breath warm on her cheek.

Instead, she shrugs, not trusting herself to speak. She'll tell him the truth if she does – that she hasn't slept the night with a man in her bed in a _very_ long time, and something as simple as another person breathing beside her is going to take some getting used to.

This whole arrangement is going to take some getting used to.

He watches her silently, but it's a comfortable silence, his eyes curious more than anything. "Can I help?" he finally asks as she starts measuring flour into a bowl, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Sure. Brew some coffee."

He raises an eyebrow, even though he's already moving to do her bidding. "Coffee is hardly conducive to sleep, Swan." He yawns as he says it, and she doesn't want to think about how cute he is like this, sleepy and rumpled and in the kitchen with her in the middle of the night, but her mind wanders anyway.

"It's not for us. It's for the cupcakes."

"Coffee goes in cupcakes." He repeats the words back to her as though she's suggested they put dish soap in the batter.

"Devil's food cupcakes, yep." She smiles up at him as he comes to stand beside her, looking over her assembled ingredients. "I was in the mood for chocolate tonight. You said you liked chocolate."

"That I did, Swan." He's close enough that his shoulder bumps into hers as he reaches across the counter for the bag of chocolate chips, stealing a few and popping them into his mouth with all the smug contentedness of a little boy successfully stealing a cookie.

She slaps his hand, pushing the bag further out of his reach. "You can't eat my ingredients if you want to actually eat a cupcake," she scolds, using her hip to push him away as she stirs the contents of the mixing bowl, pleased to see the cocoa turning the batter a rich, deep color. He bought the good stuff. "You said you wanted to help. Go make the coffee."

He looks appropriately chagrinned as he turns away, fiddling with the coffee pot before settling back onto his stool, watching her. She smiles tentatively, setting the mixing bowl down and pushing the cupcake tins toward him. "You can put the wrappers in these." She holds up the pack of paper sleeves tentatively, not quite sure if she should keep giving him things to do.

But he takes them from her instantly, carefully separating the thin paper. For a second, she forgets – forgets this isn't real, that he isn't _hers_ , that this quiet intimacy in his kitchen in the middle of the night won't be hers forever. Her heart aches as the realization slams into her, and she has to turn to the sink under the pretense of rinsing her hands before he sees it on her face.

It's been a week and she already knows it's going to hurt when this ends.

She manages to compose herself by the time she turns back, and he's watching her again as she finishes the batter, reaching for the tins he's prepared and filling each well before putting them in the oven. His eyes are still on her when she turns around to set the timer on the microwave, curious and lingering on her shirt.

"You grew up in Boston?"

"Sort of." She shrugs, glancing down. "It's just a comfortable shirt."

"Were you there long? You don't have an accent."

She shrugs again, gathering up the bowls and bringing them to the sink. "I moved around a lot as a kid."

"Military parents?"

"No parents." The words slip out before she can shove them back in, and she curses herself, her shoulders tense as the silence drags between them. She shouldn't have said it – shouldn't have revealed this piece of her past in the quiet kitchen in the middle of the night.

She hears him moving behind her, and she stiffens when she feels him next to her, his hand light on her shoulder. He reaches around her, his chest against her back as he turns the water off, gently spinning her to face him. "I'm sorry," he says simply, pushing the hair out of her eyes. "I didn't know."

"It's fine." She steps away from him, away from the warmth of his touch and starts wiping down the counter, scooping flour and sugar into her palm before going back to the sink. "It was a long time ago."

He looks like he wants to say something else, but he stays silent. Emma resumes washing the dishes, and it's only the beeping of the microwave timer that breaks the silence between them.

She pulls the tins out of the oven carefully, pleased they've puffed up nicely and don't appear to have baked unevenly. She shouldn't be surprised – his oven isn't thirty years old. The stove beep echoes in the quiet kitchen before she turns it off, and she can't avoid him anymore as she tosses the oven mitts onto the counter.

"They'll need to cool for awhile before I can frost them," she explains, shifting her weight from one foot to the other while her eyes settled somewhere over his shoulder. "It could be awhile. You can go back to bed if you want."

"Trying to get rid of me, Swan?" There's a challenge buried in the teasing lilt, a trace of hurt in the smirk. She hates how easily she seems to find his sore spots – for all his acting skills in his professional life, it's getting frighteningly easy for her to read him when they're alone.

"Just because I can't sleep doesn't mean you have to suffer with me," she says eventually, picking at a dab of chocolate on her arm she missed.

"I like you like this." It's raw and honest, and he's watching her when she looks up sharply.

"An insomniac?"

"Human." He sighs, pressing his palms into the counter and stretching his back before standing. "Come sit with me in the living room. It's more comfortable. You said those need awhile to cool."

She hesitates, and he must be learning to read her too. "I won't bite, Swan," he says softly, like she's apt to run off at any moment.

"Okay." She glances at the cupcakes once more, following him into the living room and curling into a corner of the couch. She can hear the rattle and rustle of the palm fronds in the wind through the open windows. It's soothing, the quietness up here, and she wonders at what point it's going to be strange to sleep in her own apartment again instead of being here.

He puts his feet up on the coffee table, scratching just behind his ear before he speaks. "I owe you an apology, Swan, for my behavior earlier. The drinking…well, it's a problem on occasion, or you wouldn't be here in the first place." He turns to her with that exposed expression he gets sometimes, every emotion clearly visible on his face. "I drink more than I ought to when things are hard. Not my finest moments."

"Maybe it's none of my business, but…" She hesitates, glancing down at her hands and scraping at a chipped nail. He doesn't say anything, doesn't try to stop her, so she plows ahead. "Today…I mean… I know you said you hate answering their questions. But that's always been part of it. What was any different today?"

She knows the answer before the words even fully leave her lips by the way his eyes darken ever so slightly. "You," he says, like it's the most obvious answer, his expression serious. "I…you don't know this world, Emma. I won't be able to shield you from all of it, but while I can…"

"It's not your job to protect me. It's my job to help you."

"Aye. Your job."

The bitterness is back and Emma sucks in her breath, because she didn't want to have to say this, didn't want to have to remind him of it, but she needs a line between them to keep her sanity. "Yes, my job. Killian, this…whatever happens between us…we can be friends. That can be real. But the rest of it…"

"Would it be so terrible to discover we might make each other happy?" he asks after a long silence, his eyes on the windows and the city beyond.

"I know you could make me happy," she says, surprising even herself with the honest answer. He turns to her suddenly, and it crushes her to see the hope flaring in his eyes, and she rushes to finish her thought before he can do anything about it.

"And I could probably make you happy, for a time. But it would fall apart, eventually. Probably before you get this movie role, and that's the point of all this, right? The movie. And even if it didn't fall apart…" She shrugs, back to studying her nails. "Regina is right. Your star will rise faster if you're single."

"What if I didn't care about the damn movie?"

She smiles sadly, shaking her head. "Killian, you've known me for a week. We're attracted to each other. No point in denying it. But you can't make life-altering decisions based off a week. So let's agree that this year we have, we're just friends. Anything more is only for show. We start crossing that line and it gets complicated, and messy, and neither of us needs that."

He looks like he wants to protest, like he wants to argue, but he doesn't. Instead, his expression closes off, the stiffness returning to his shoulders. "As you wish," he says quietly, rising to his feet. "I find I'm rather tired, Swan. Don't stay up too late."

He finds her asleep in the morning on the couch, two-dozen perfectly frosted cupcakes on his kitchen counter right next to the broken pieces of hope left between them.

* * *

 **So first off, HAPPY BIRTHDAY lenfaz ! Sadly, I could not incorporate a pool table into this chapter for you, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!**

 **The kitchen scene is one of the early pieces I dreamt up when I was thinking about writing this, and it's definitely one of my favorites in spite of how this chapter ends.**

 **Thank you as always to oncepromised & onceuponsomechaos for being sounding boards and beta wonders. I'm lucky to have you!**

 **Here's the bad news. My next summer session class starts tomorrow, and it's 5-9 Friday and 9-5 Saturday. This is followed by a Sunday 6am flight out of town. So...it may be a few days. I promise to keep the wait as short as possible!**


	8. Chapter 8

The morning is awkward between them – a bit like that first morning all over again, but worse. She's hurt him and she knows it; he can see the guilt in her expression when she thinks he isn't watching. But he's not stupid – he knows pushing her will only make her build higher walls, so he accepts her decision for now.

They're friends, nothing more.

And slowly, it becomes true. They grow more comfortable with each other, and she doesn't flinch anymore when his hand rests on the small of her back. The brush of her lips against his cheek doesn't feel quite so forced, and she leans into him on one red carpet after another without prompting.

She seems to adapt to sleeping in his bed, but that's harder. All it takes is one morning where she wakes with him folded around her to start sleeping with a line of pillows between them. He hates it. Waking up with her warm, soft body pressed to his bare chest, only the thin fabric of her tank top between them, is a tiny slice of heaven. He's loathe to give it up.

But he knows better than to argue the matter.

The awkwardness makes another appearance for a few days, but it gets easier to move past it.

She still wakes up in the middle of the night, still has trouble sleeping. He starts recognizing the signs of her unrest, starts seeing it in her eyes when it's going to be a bad night. He tries to cheer her up – sometimes he sits up with her, playing the role of baking assistant. Sometimes he's so tired he collapses into bed with a teasing request for a certain sort of treat.

Only when he wakes to two-dozen perfect cupcakes lined up on the counter, the dull ache of sadness flares into an acute tightness in his chest. The beautiful desserts are just another of Emma's carefully composed masks, and one of these days, he's going call her out on it.

But not when this fragile peace exists between them.

They spend long afternoons together, hiking the local trails – where Regina ensures someone takes a photograph of them together – or down at the beach, coming back to his house flushed with color and relaxed. Yet there's always an undercurrent, a spark that flares to life when he touches her, a _want_ that doesn't lessen as the weeks turn to months.

He begins training with David, learning the sword fighting and horsemanship that has made his friend so famous. The movie he's after is a co-starring role with David, and David _should_ have enough pull to get him the role, but the suits are nervous because the insurance companies are nervous. In turn, Regina becomes anxious, and when Regina gets anxious, she gets more controlling than ever over the public image Killian and Emma are creating. It's no longer good enough to go to Starbucks together – he should kiss her cheek while they stand in line; it's no longer acceptable to go to the beach to relax unless someone gets a photo of them in the water, wrapped up in each other's arms.

So he throws himself into the training, and between that and Emma, slowly, the tabloids talk less about his wild nights – not that there's been a single wild night since Emma walked into his life – and more about his adoring looks when he's photographed with her. They take pictures of him emerging from the gym, dripping with sweat and his hair plastered to his forehead instead of falling out of a bar, and most days Regina is in a better mood than he's seen her in his entire career.

She's even _nice_ to Emma.

Emma spends more and more time at Killian's house. It's just easier than constantly shuffling back and forth from her apartment – not to mention his house has a gate. The more public their relationship becomes, the more often she's followed by at least one or two fairly creepy looking guys with cameras.

It's not the only change in her routine. She's agreed to avoid reading the online rags, but when she goes to the grocery store, and it's her face splashed across the cover of a magazine with one garish headline or another, her fingers itch to pick up a copy.

It doesn't matter – it _shouldn't_ matter. She knows there's no sense in caring about what they have to say – this is all temporary anyway. It's not at though she has to contend with this forever. When her year is up, she'll fade back into the shadows where she belongs. It doesn't matter there's an expiration date on her time with Killian – or that thinking about the end of the year brings on pangs of longing increasingly difficult to ignore.

In spite of her resolve not to care, Emma still avoids the grocery store when she can, frequenting the local markets instead. It solves the problem of the magazines. It doesn't solve the problem of the creeps following her around, crowding her in parking lots not only when she shops, but also when she goes to her apartment. They've gone so far as follow her to her door, and it's getting harder to hide how uncomfortable she feels knowing only a flimsy door separates them.

She tells Killian about the latest swarm as she walks in the door, her arms filled with groceries, and he smirks at her, gesturing to her bright yellow Bug. "You hardly drive an inconspicuous vehicle, Swan." There's a flare of anger in his eyes even as he says it, but he's teasing her to cover it, and she lets him.

Her eyes narrow – the Bug is now a long-standing point of contention between them. He's offered to replace it, but Emma refuses on principle, no matter how many times he insists it's a _friendly_ thing to do since the cost is so insignificant to him. She's already taking so much from him – he can't go replacing her damn car too.

"Me? _That_ …" She points to his car in the driveway, the same Maserati he took her out in what feels like forever ago. "…is not inconspicuous."

"It is in this town." He's being smug again, but he takes one of the bags from her, peering inside at the contents. It's a new weekly routine – Emma goes to the farmer's market, buys whatever looks good, and they cook together. He's strangely good at making Mexican, and this week she's bought all the ingredients he needs to make enchiladas.

"You could just stay here," he says nonchalantly as they enter the kitchen, setting the bags down on the center island as she empties them.

"Huh?"

"I have a gate. It keeps the vermin out. Your apartment does not." He shrugs. "So you could just stay here."

"I stay here all the time," she says, her words slow in spite of the way his offer has made her heart can't possibly mean...

"No, love, I mean _stay_ here. It wouldn't be a big change. It's not like you want to remain in that apartment when this is all over, anyway. You know you can live with me while you look for a place."

He's being far too casual about it, and Emma isn't stupid enough to fall for it – he _wants_ her here. But that's dangerous, toeing the line they've – _she's_ – worked so hard to keep firm between them.

Though she can't deny that going back and forth between her place and his is getting old. It _would_ be easier at this point to just pack up the apartment.

"Okay." Her agreement is reluctant, but it's given, even if she does say it into the refrigerator.

Killian manages to hide his grin before she turns back to him, but when she does, he's got the tequila bottle in his hand. "If we're having Mexican tonight, shall we make margaritas?"

"I _did_ buy limes at the market. It would be a shame if we didn't use them."

They don't talk about her moving in anymore that night, Killian humming to himself at the stove as he spends the afternoon making enchilada sauce, the two of them slowly getting sillier and sillier as the tequila flows. By the time they make it to dinner on the patio, Emma knows she's drunk – she just doesn't care anymore.

Emma falls asleep on one of the lounge chairs on the patio, and Killian carries her to bed. She curls into his chest with a sigh of contentment, nuzzling against his neck. She moves in her sleep, every soft, unguarded touch turning into a fight not to bury his face in her hair. It's hard to lay her down on the mattress, to gently untangle her arms from around his neck, because he knows sober and awake Emma wouldn't want to be wrapped up in his arms like this, wouldn't want the intimacy of being carried to bed.

Well, that's not quite right, he thinks to himself ruefully as he tosses his shirt into the laundry basket in the closet and climbs into bed. Sober and awake Emma _wants_ plenty. He's seen it in her eyes when she's close to him in the house, no one watching them. But she won't _let_ herself, and that nearly makes it worse.

She reaches for him, and he knows he should put the row of pillows she's always so careful about between them, but he's so tired of fighting this. His arm slips around her shoulders, and he sighs because she just _fits_ , in his arms, in his home, in his life – and he wishes this was all _real_.

When he wakes up in the morning, the bed is cold and Emma isn't in the house. She doesn't come back until late in the afternoon, and she doesn't offer an explanation. She just asks when she should have the apartment ready to go by before asking what he wants for dinner.

He doesn't argue.

He recruits David to help them move her things with his truck. Emma tries to fight him on it – _I can do it by myself. I'll just rent a U-Haul_ – but he scoffs. "Emma, as your _friend_ I'm telling you that's unacceptable. I'm supposed to be your _boyfriend_. You are absolutely not moving your things by yourself."

"You could have hired someone," she grumbles as they drive to her apartment, strangely nervous. He's never been here – there's never been a reason for him to see this awful place she's lived for years. She shouldn't let this bother her – he knows she took this job for the money, that things weren't in a good place for her.

"Aye, I could have, but I prefer to do these things for myself."

She knows he's going to say it before he does, because he's right. On Mondays, the gardener cleans up the yard and the pool, and on Wednesdays a cleaning service cleans his house, but other than that, he cooks his own meals, washes his own dishes, takes out his own trash.

Most weeks, he does her laundry _and_ his.

There may have been an incident with one of his sweaters and the dryer the last time she tried to help out with that particular chore. How was she supposed to know you can't throw everything in the dryer that goes in the washer? She's never had clothes that come with a ridiculous set of instructions on the tag.

"I know." He grins at her, that smug grin that she rolls her eyes at but secretly loves.

David pulls in behind them with his truck, and Emma's nerves return as they climb out of Killian's car. She's gotten to know his friend a bit more over the last few months, though they've avoided any date nights out with him and his pregnant wife so far, mostly by Killian's maneuvering in a silent, mutual understanding that fooling Killian's best friend is more pressure than either of them needs.

But David overheard them talking about moving Emma's things, and he insisted on helping. He did make an excellent point that Killian's sports cars are hardly appropriate for moving boxes.

Emma didn't have the heart to explain to either of them that she could have moved the boxes by herself in the Bug in two trips, max. She's already brought a lot of her clothes to Killian's, not that there was much to start with.

She's thrown a lot out or donated to a local shelter. There's no reason to move her dented, rusted pots and pans into Killian's garage – when this is over, she can buy new ones.

And an oven that isn't older than she is.

"It's a good thing you're moving in with him," David says in greeting, glancing around the parking lot with a frown. "This isn't safe for you, Emma."

Killian's arm winds around her shoulders before she can say anything, his hand squeezing her shoulder just tightly enough to remind her that she's supposed to be _happy_ about moving into his house – not indignant about her abilities to take care of herself. "I've been telling her that for weeks, mate."

Emma smiles up at him, silently plotting her revenge for when they're alone. Maybe she'll make cupcakes tonight and sprinkle hot sauce on them when he isn't paying attention. Or shove him into the pool. Or something. But for now, she brushes a kiss against his cheek and grins at his friend. "I didn't want him to think I was just taking advantage," she says sweetly, reaching for his hand on her shoulder and winding their fingers together.

David chuckles, following Emma up the stairs to her third floor apartment. It's a real struggle to retain the happy façade as she shoves the key in the door and kicks it open as she turns the lock – it's always stuck a little.

Killian's face transforms instantly. The happy, easy smile turns hard as he glances around at the stained walls and cramped space. "Emma…" He says her name like he hasn't quite meant to, a quiet whisper that's filled with emotion.

It's _pity_ , and she _can't_ handle his pity. This was her life for a long time – it wasn't a glamorous life or comfortable all the time, but it's the life she made for herself from _nothing_.

Not that he knows what she crawled out of – not that she has any intention of telling him about her stint in jail or any of the other events from that time in her life. She's been careful to keep her past from him, to avoid any deep conversations about their families or childhoods. It helps her remember – he's _not_ going to be around forever. This is _temporary._

"I'm not taking much," she says when she manages to raise her eyes to the both of them once more, ignoring the looks of quiet horror. "There's a few boxes with clothes and some other things. The furniture came with the place, so it stays. I doubt we'll even fill up the back of the truck. Easiest move ever." She smiles brightly, but they're both still looking at her with such concern she finally loses her temper.

"Look, it's not what either of you are used to, I get it. But I lived here for years, and I survived, and I don't need either of you looking at me like _that_. So either go wait outside or help me with the boxes."

"Sorry, Emma." David apologizes quickly, grabbing one of the boxes she's pointed at. "I'm just really happy you and Killian found each other. You deserve better."

He disappears into the hall with the box, leaving her alone with Killian. He looks like he's going to say something, but the damn _pity_ is still in his eyes, and she can't. "Don't," she warns, picking up a box and shoving it into his arms. "We are _not_ talking about this. Not now. Not ever."

"Emma, I…"

"I haven't asked you for anything," she cuts in, struggling to keep her voice even as she meets his eyes. "I'm begging you, leave this alone."

He stares at her, and he's still staring at her when David walks back in. His steps break their stare, and then Killian is grabbing a box and carrying it out the door without another word.

"Everything okay?" David asks, reaching for another box as Emma bends to pick one up herself. It's light – she's packed all of them lightly so she didn't have to admit all her possessions could have fit into half a dozen boxes.

"Yeah. He's just overprotective sometimes." It's the best girlfriend-like excuse she can come up with, and she expects it to end the conversation, but it doesn't.

"Emma, go easy on him. He cares about you. He's…" David frowns, shifting the box on his hip as he looks at her like he wants to say so much more, but he's not sure if he should. "You mean a lot to him," he finally settles on, turning toward the door.

She sighs, closing her eyes tightly and standing in the empty apartment for one long moment before heading down the stairs herself.

It takes a depressingly short amount of time to empty the apartment of her meager possessions, and she tries to be lighter, to joke with the boys, but they both keep looking at her like _that_ , like if they're not careful, she might break apart.

She hates it.

They pile her things into the garage, with the exception of two boxes of clothes that go into Killian's closet. "I have to go through some of it," she explains to David when he raises an eyebrow at the instructions to put her stuff in the garage. "I'm not sure how much of it I want to keep."

He shrugs, and Emma thinks that's the end of it, but he stays the evening with them. It's harder in some ways – Killian touches her constantly, running his fingers down her spine, curling his arm around her waist, resting his hand on her thigh. She plays along, leaning into his touch, kissing his cheek, stealing his beer, but it's exhausting. She's not sure when she started thinking of this house as _home_ , but she has – and having to be someone other than purely herself even at home is hard.

This whole day has been hard.

But it's also nice to see Killian relax with his friend. It's obvious the two men have a deep friendship and genuinely care about each other – they're not just two actors who did a movie together a decade ago and claim to keep in touch. She's known that for awhile, but watching the two of them man the grill in the backyard – Killian asking about David's pregnant wife with genuine interest, the way that David's eyes find her every so often, a flicker of concern lurking there – it only makes their friendship that much more real to her.

He's not worried about her using his friend, in spite of her background – he's worried about _her_. It's a strange feeling to have people genuinely concerned for her.

It's dark by the time he leaves, a touch of guilt in his goodbye when he admits he should be getting home. Killian walks him out while Emma stays on the patio, her feet propped on the edge of the fire pit as the flames dance in the light breeze.

"Don't." The warning leaves her lips almost involuntarily when she hears his steps on the concrete, bringing the beer bottle to her lips and taking a long swig from it. "Just because he's gone doesn't mean I've changed my mind." He ignores her word and slides onto the lounge chair beside her, wrapping his arm around her in spite of her attempt to dislodge him with jerk of her shoulders. "There's no one here, Killian. Show's over."

"Swan, can we not fight about this tonight, please? I want to talk to you, and I want to…" He stops, his free hand pinching at the bridge of his nose before his palm rubs against his eyes.

"I don't want to talk about…"

"I said I want to talk to you. I didn't say you had to talk to me," he interrupts, turning his pleading eyes to her.

"You can't talk to me from your own chair?" She keeps her voice quiet, trying to not make the words as harsh as they are, but he's too damn close.

"Bloody hell, Swan." He releases his hold on her, throwing himself angrily into the lounge chair next to her. Guilt washes over her, but she _needs_ him to keep his distance, especially tonight when her emotions are running high. "May I speak now? Or have you other objections?"

She doesn't respond, because she doesn't have anything to say that will make her behavior any more acceptable. She _knows_ she should have just let him stay, but it felt a little _too_ good to be snuggled in next to him, feet to the fire and the quiet of the night surrounding them.

"I understand I reacted poorly at your apartment," he finally says when her silence makes it clear she isn't going to speak. "And I understand you don't want to talk about it, and you don't have to, but I wanted you to know it wasn't pity. I've lived in apartments like that and worse, Swan. I know what it is to claw your way out of that life."

"You've obviously done a better job of it than I have."

"I'm trying to tell you I understand, Emma." He sighs, pushing his hands against his knees and getting to his feet. "I'm going to have a shower and head to bed, I think. Will you be out here long?" he asks, but he knows the answer – knows if she comes to bed at all tonight it will be just before the dawn.

"Just a bit longer."

He lingers at the patio door, half-in and half-out, but he knows all the hesitating in the doorway won't help her sour mood.

In the morning, there's two-dozen perfect lemon cupcakes on the kitchen counter.

* * *

Updating in the morning because I've been up since 4 and post brunch I might be...drunk. Hope you guys like this one! Next update will (hopefully) be Tuesday - and I think y'all are going to like that one.

Big thanks to oncepromised & onceuponsomechaos as per usual.


	9. Chapter 9

It's barely a week later, and they've settled back into what passes as normal for them. He helped her make chocolate cupcakes the night before last, and they got into a bit of a war with the frosting.

She laughed. She laughed so hard her cheeks hurt, especially at the look on his face when she smeared a streak of chocolate frosting down the bridge of his nose. He got her back, scooping out a glob of chocolate frosting to paint across her face with a touch that lingered longer than it should have.

It was only when they declared a truce, the kitchen quickly turning into a chocolatey disaster, that her breath had caught, his eyes on her lips, their bodies close. She saw it coming, the moment he was going to breathe her name out in that soft whisper of his, and she turned away, moving to the sink to clean up. "Now I've got to make more frosting," she scolded him, smiling from a few feet away.

He hesitated, a hint of desire in his eyes, but then it was gone again. "Worth it," was all he said before joining her at the sink.

But tonight will be a performance for them. It's another movie premiere, and this isn't one they necessarily have to attend, but Killian's invited and Regina says it's good for him to be seen at industry events, behaving himself with Emma on his arm. Besides, the director he needs to impress is expected at the after-party, and Regina firmly insisted they make an appearance.

The movie is dark and edgy, and has generated a lot of buzz. Emma is actually looking forward to this one, and she's surprised by the selection of sexy, tight black dresses Regina sends over with the stylist. They are a contrast to the sweeter, more wholesome – if anything about Hollywood could be called wholesome – styles she has worn before.

There is nothing sweet about tonight's choices.

The stylist – she goes by Tink, which is absolutely not her real name, but it suits her – laughs at Emma's shock. "It's a dark movie, Emma. You get to be a little bit of a bad girl tonight." She purses her lips, her eyes sliding toward the door. "I think Killian is going to like whichever you choose."

Emma shivers in spite of herself, because Killian doesn't need to _like_ anything about her more than he does. He's been respectful of her boundaries, but it hasn't stopped him from wanting. She can see it in his eyes, and every now and then, it's strong enough that she's almost tempted to give into it.

She just can't.

In the end, the dress she picks is short and strapless. From the front it looks basic enough, but the back has elaborately done up corset lacing. Tink pairs it with a pair of sky-high black patent leather heels and sends her off to have her hair and makeup done.

Killian emerges as they're setting her hair with hairspray. He catches sight of her in the mirror, and he hasn't even seen the full effect yet, but his eyes could burn her with their intensity.

Not that he's looking too shabby himself in fitted black jeans and a leather jacket tailored perfectly to his shoulders. She's seen him in suits a hundred times before, and she's used to his ripped jeans and old T-shirts, but this, this is new. His lip curves just slightly as their eyes meet, and she looks away, her cheeks flushing beneath the layers of makeup.

"Hands off until after the press line," Regina reminds them from the doorway, but she seems rather pleased with herself tonight. Usually she's scowling at them in the doorway before these events, eyes narrowed at their respective appearances. She checks her watch, gesturing to the two of them. "Time to go."

Killian grins at Emma in spite of Regina's gesturing toward the door, offering his hand as she gets out of the chair she's been in for the better part of an hour, and his eyes widen as they roam over her exposed legs. She can't help teasing him, offering up a cheeky grin. "Save that look for the cameras, Jones," she whispers in his ear, too quiet to be overheard.

His eyes narrow at her, and she knows she's going to pay for it – and she does. They walk the entire press line with his hand firmly settled on her ass, and there isn't a thing she can do about it but smile for the cameras. The thing is, tonight, she just doesn't care. He's done it to her so many times she's used to it.

She tells herself that lie every time a shiver runs down her spine at his touch, the heat blooming in her belly as his hand slides over her body.

She's glad to be free of the press line, but they still mingle in the theater before they take their seats, his arm around her the entire time. His cologne is new tonight, and whatever it is, it smells amazing. Emma tries not to be obvious about it, standing close and breathing him in, but she can see the smirk playing at his lips.

"Having fun, Swan?" he asks in a low voice as they take their seats, his hand instantly settling on her bare thigh, thumb dragging over the soft skin.

"Stop it," she hisses under the pretense of kissing his cheek, her fingers trailing through his hair so she can lean closer.

"Lights are still up," he murmurs back, the smirk never leaving his lips.

She's beginning to regret wearing the dress. He's pushing her tonight, toeing the increasingly hazy line between them. It's no secret she desires him – she's told him outright – but he usually doesn't try to bring that out in her, doesn't flirt and tease and intentionally try to make her blood boil as she fights the urge to press her thighs together.

The second the lights go down, she snatches his wrist and moves his hand back to his own leg. His grin only broadens, and she hates him a little in that moment, because he _got_ to her, and that damn grin tells her that was his plan all along.

But he behaves for the duration of the movie, keeping his hands to himself. The movie is good, though she'll be okay never seeing it again. She vaguely recognizes the lead villain – Graham something – and is impressed by how terrifying he can be as a serial killer hunting people down in the woods.

The second the lights come up, Killian's touching her again. She sighs, shooting him a glare as he loops his arm around her waist and they make their way out of the theater. The after party next door is the entire reason they're here tonight, so there's no getting out of it.

It's almost a relief when he spots the man, kissing her cheek and leaving her to mingle while he goes to talk business. It's nothing new – she's grown used to this scene over the last few months, the surreal experience of attending parties surrounded by people she sees on magazine covers.

She grabs a drink from the bar, her eyes scanning the room for a place to wait for him that's out of the way. David skipped tonight's event to stay home with his wife, whose due date came and went two days ago. There are a few friendly faces here, people she's chatted with before, but she's not in the mood to socialize. Between the horror of the movie, and Killian's unusually aggressive affection, she's unsettled. She isn't sure what's gotten into him tonight, but this isn't the place to ask.

She wants to go home and take her frustration with Killian out on his kitchen.

"Hey, you're Emma Swan. You're with Killian."

Emma turns toward the voice, none other than Graham-something himself. She smiles, her eyes automatically finding Killian in the crowd. "I am. You were great in the movie. Very creepy."

"Thank you." He picks up his own drink after a nod at the bartender, holding his arm out to her. "I can't believe he's left you by yourself."

She forces a laugh, because she really doesn't want to do the small talk routine. She doesn't take his arm, curling her fingers around her drink instead. "He's talking to a director. Business stuff. I'm okay on my own for five minutes."

"If you were mine, I wouldn't leave you alone for a minute."

She smiles nervously, because there's something in his expression that's a little too intense for her liking. But she's just watched the man murder people for an hour and a half, so she pushes the feeling aside and asks him how he liked making the movie. It's enough to get him talking, and she can sip her drink and nod every few moments without saying much.

She senses Killian's presence behind her before his fingers curl possessively around her hip. "Hey, Killian," she says, stepping back into his embrace and leaning against him, puzzled by the tightness of his grip on her. She presses a kiss to his cheek like any good girlfriend would, trying not to read too much into the coldness of his eyes as he glares at Graham. "Good talk?"

"Aye. Hunter, if you'll excuse us?" He doesn't wait for an answer, pulling her along with him, tension radiating from his body as he tugs her into a small alcove made by a half-wall and indoor palm tree.

"Hey, what's…"

The rest of her words are lost as Killian hauls her up against him, his lips devouring hers in a brutal kiss. She thinks about pulling away for a fraction of a second, but despite being mildly secluded, there's plenty of people who could see them if they simply glanced in their direction. She tells herself that's her reason, that it has nothing to do with a burning curiosity to see how things might be between them, if they were _real_ – how it might be if she stopped fighting the rush of desire she can't always prevent from flooding her veins.

So Emma gives into it, gives into _him_ for these few seconds as her arms wind around his neck, her body pressing to his as their lips move together. This isn't like their other kisses – quick pecks on the cheek and on the lips, played for the cameras. This is an inferno of lust bursting into flames. It's too much and not enough at the same time.

It might burn her alive.

But really kissing Killian, the insistent movement of his lips against hers, his tongue stroking her, one hand fisting in her hair, this is different. It's like he's determined to possess her, and it should make her angry, but it doesn't. This kiss sends heat rushing through her veins and her heart racing.

She should push him away, she _really_ should push him away, but she's reluctant to give up this reprieve she's granted herself, her fingers threading into the softness of his hair even as her other hand clutches the back of his neck to keep herself upright. Not that she's going anywhere – his fingers are splayed across her lower back, his palm anchoring her against him.

She'll tell him when they get home all the reasons he can't do it again, but in the moment, she lets her hips press into his, lets her body take over as she gives as good as she gets. They're both gasping for air when he finally releases her.

His thumb drags along her lip – fixing her lipstick she realizes – when she sees the cherry red makeup staining his lips. It's impossible not smile up at him, something silly about the dark Killian Jones with bright red lipstick smeared across his mouth. But as she rubs the makeup off him, their eyes catch, something primal and dangerous in his stare. She sucks in a deep breath, her amusement vanishing as she takes in his serious expression and the full reality of what's just occurred slams into her.

"Whatever that was about, it was a _one time thing_ , do you understand?" she hisses, all thought of keeping this conversation on ice for the time being gone in the wake of the look in his eyes. She needs him to understand _right now_ this isn't happening again, that whatever set him off tonight is _not_ acceptable.

She repeats it silently to herself. It was a one time thing, this one kiss where he obviously had a point to prove – a point she suspects has something to do with Graham Hunter and his wandering eyes. But she let him, because they're in public, and this is her _job_.

He runs his hand down her side, settling on her hip as he leans closer, his voice low. "Swan, you keep telling yourself that. You kissed me back." He's triumphant, a deep satisfaction in his eyes, and that's what finally hardens her against him.

He thinks he's won a game – she's trying desperately to protect her heart.

"One time thing," she repeats as the anger flares to life, moving away from the alcove that shields them. By the time he catches up to her, she has a smile plastered back on her face. There are too many cameras here to let her anger show.

They don't stay much longer, and the car ride is tense and filled with hostility. Emma doesn't know what the hell his problem is – she has a right to be angry. He doesn't. That kiss was well outside the boundaries of any sort of requirement to keep up appearances – and to think she was willing to let it go if he hadn't been such a smug bastard about it.

She rounds on him the second the door closes behind them. "What the fuck was that all about? All damn night, and then _that!_ " She's holding her shoes again, and she's of half a mind to throw one at him. "There was absolutely no need for that. I can't _believe_ you—"

He's livid when he faces her, and he's shouting at her and he's _never_ shouted at her. "You've built this wall between us, and then you're just standing there flirting with Graham bloody Hunter in front of an entire room full of people who think you're _mine_!" He stops, his breathing shaky and his hands balled into fists. "And you bloody kissed me _back_ so stop acting like I've somehow wronged you!"

"Of course I kissed you back! You _knew_ I would have to kiss you back! We were in front of _an entire room full of people_ that are under the impression I'm apparently your _possession_!"

"Bought and paid for, darling."

" _Fuck_ you!"

She doesn't sleep in his bed that night. She doesn't bake. She sits outside by the fire, wrapped in a blanket from one of the guest rooms drinking wine straight from the bottle in the damn dress she can't take off without help.

The tears pour down her cheeks in waves, because she _hates_ this. She hates that in spite of her every effort to keep things uncomplicated between them, they _are_ complicated. She didn't want to get hurt, but here she is, crying on the patio in the dark because not only did he yell at her, but he was _mean_. He's never been mean. She saw the intention in his eyes, the proverbial knife twisting by his hand as he went for the words sure to hurt her the most.

He appears just before dawn. He looks like hell and that somehow makes her feel better about the mascara she knows is smeared across her face – she's not the only one this night has turned upside down. She pulled the fake lashes off hours ago, threw them into the fire, but the rest of her makeup is bound to be smeared and smudged across her cheeks.

"I'm sorry." His voice is hoarse, thick with emotion, but he keeps his distance, lingering in the doorway, plainly uncertain if his apology will be welcome or accepted.

"You should be." She aims for cold and detached, but her voice is too scratchy from her tears.

"You don't make it easy, Emma."

"All I've been doing is trying to make it easy." She takes a shaky breath, finally working up the nerve to bring her gaze to his. The approaching dawn has yet to bring any real light, only a faint paling of the eastern sky, but the firelight shows all of his soul laid bare. She's seen a lot of different versions of him over the four months they've been doing this, but tonight is the first time she looks into his eyes and sees wreckage.

"We promised each other no lies from the start," he says softly, sliding into a chair across from her. "Tell me why – why can't we just _try_ , love? That kiss…" He sees her tense, and he sighs, scrubbing his hands over his eyes. "I wasn't the only one who felt it, Swan. We may not have met under the most opportune circumstances, but we _have_ something. You cannot honestly sit there and tell me it isn't the truth."

"I know." It's the barest hint of a whisper, and she swallows thickly against the tears rising in her eyes all over again. She's exhausted and emotional and she doesn't want to have to say it, but she's not sure he's going to accept her answer any other way. "If I…if I give this piece of myself to you, this one piece I have that's still mine, you will _destroy_ me, Killian. I won't survive it."

"Why are you so sure? Have I…what makes you so certain I will bring about your demise?" His hands have balled into fists on his legs, and she can see the tension again in his shoulders.

"I can't take the chance I'm wrong about you." She smiles sadly, her gaze settling back on the flames. He's silent for a long time, but when she finally looks up, he's watching her.

"I intend to prove you wrong," he says quietly, rising from his chair and offering her his hand. "But in the meanwhile, I promise not to behave again as I did tonight again. Come to bed, Emma. I know you need help with your dress."

She hesitates, staring at his outstretched hand but in the end, she bends to turn the gas off on the fire pit and lets her fingers slide into his.

There's something heavy in the silence between them, but it's not exactly unpleasant, as he leads them through the house, their fingers tangled. She should let his hand go, but she doesn't, her chilled fingers curling around his warm ones. It's only when they enter the bedroom and she sweeps her hair over her shoulder that he lets go, his hands instead lingering on her back as he unlaces the dress. Her skin is still cold from the night outdoors, and every brush of his warm skin is a burning ember against her flesh – one she's determined not to give into again.

He's already in bed when she emerges from the closet in her shorts and tank, and she hesitates, torn between wanting to apologize and wanting to forget the entire night. But it's already been too much – too much truth, too much hurt, too damn _much_ of too many things, so she stays silent as she pulls the quilt over her.

She doesn't expect to sleep, not with her emotions in a knot and the memory of his lips on hers so fresh, but she's exhausted and sleep comes quickly.

* * *

I'm sick, so tonight's note is short and sweet. Much thanks for being a sounding board to oncepromised and HUGE thanks toonceuponsomechaos for the hard beta work on this one. When your writer is sick and revising, it takes a special kind of patience to point out missing periods and deal with said cranky writer. I 3 you.

Here's hoping that kiss lived up to expectations ;)


	10. Chapter 10

They dance around each other in the morning. Emma sees her own tangled emotions reflected back in him - the rawness, the hesitation in his glances. She gets the impression he thinks he's said more than he ought to have, the way his eyes flicker over her face with a trace of uncertainty as he sips his coffee beside her on the patio.

Yet something burns there, tucked in neatly beside his obvious regrets, his gaze falling on her lips almost inadvertently. He's too easy to read now, and she can tell by the look in his eyes he's remembering their kiss.

He's not alone.

The memories don't change the fact their argument has left Emma deeply unsettled, unable to shake the hoarseness of his voice or his promise – _I intend to prove you wrong_.

It terrifies her that a piece of her hopes he succeeds.

"I'm going for a run," she announces abruptly, setting down her coffee mug and getting to her feet. "It will be too hot later."

"I…" He stops, his eyes wide with a hopefulness that tugs at her. "If you could tolerate my company, I should like to join you."

She wants to say no. She _wants_ to say no – this run has nothing to do with fitness and everything to do with clearing her mind, putting some space between them – but it will cut him to the bone if she pushes him away. That much is clear by merely the way he phrased his request, and after the night they've had, Emma _can't_ see that look in his eyes again. It stung enough the first time, the guilt for hurting him, for _lying_ to him, all wrapped up in her own anger.

"Sure," she finally says quietly, managing a small smile. "I was just going to go around here, unless you want to go to the canyon."

"Here is fine."

They set out at an easy pace, not talking. She usually listens to music, but the roads are too narrow, too windy, to risk not being able to hear an approaching car, so instead she listens to the rhythm of their sneakers on the pavement. She doesn't look at Killian, but she is hyper-aware of his presence beside her, his footfalls just slightly off in rhythm from hers.

The morning is already warm, but Emma's speed creeps higher and higher as they run, pushing into a place where all she can think about is the cadence of her breath and her feet. She doesn't want to think about him beside her, about the way his sweaty shirt clings to his chest, the wind tousling his hair. She doesn't want to think about how it felt to be pressed so tightly to him, wrapped up in his arms, the taste of him on her lips – it just makes it that much more difficult to remember where the line is between them anymore, that there _is_ a line, whether he says he wants one or not.

So she runs faster.

By the time they round the last bend, it's an all-out sprint to the gate, an unspoken race to the finish. Emma's palm slams into it with a clang a second before his, but her sense of triumph fades as they both collapse against the cool metal, panting heavily.

"Bloody hell, Swan. What was that about?" The words come between gasps, a hint of irritation in his eyes. He's been running regularly with David, but she's lighter, faster, and she knows he would never admit it, but he had a hard time keeping up with her.

She shrugs, avoiding his gaze. "I just felt like going for a run."

"I've been running plenty a time with you, love. It's never been as though a pack of bloody wolves were at your heels."

She starts to make an excuse, to shrug again, but she remembers their _no lies_ promise and aims for something closer to the truth. "Sometimes I like to go fast, tire myself out," she finally says as she types in the code for the gate.

"Emma, last night…"

"We don't have to talk about it anymore," she cuts in, watching the gate slowly open. She barely waits for it to swing wide enough for her to slip through, starting up the driveway. Her heart rate hasn't recovered from the run, but she can feel it tick up a notch as the memories of the night swirl in her thoughts. She doesn't want to rehash their night – she just wants to move past it. "It's over. It's not going to happen again, so let's just let it go." She doesn't even know which _it_ she means – the kiss, the fight, the aftermath on the patio in the faint light of approaching dawn – but it doesn't matter. _None_ of it is happening again.

"Emma." His fingers curl around her bicep, her skin slippery with sweat and his palm warm. She turns reluctantly to face him, but her eyes focus over his shoulder, watching the palm fronds dance in the breeze. "I need to explain…"

His phone starts ringing, breaking the quiet of the morning. She thinks he's going to ignore it – there's determination in his eyes like she's never seen before. But he reaches into his pocket with a curse, glancing at the screen before answering.

"Dave, everything all right?"

Emma tries not to sag with relief as he releases her arm, his brow furrowing as he listens. With Mary Margaret past her due date, her first instinct is that something has gone wrong. Killian's sudden smile eases her worry, and his words are confirmation.

"That's fantastic. Congratulations, mate!" He grins at Emma, and she can't help but smile back, his happiness contagious. "Of course we'll come by shortly. Can I bring you anything?" He chuckles, and Emma finds it impossible to take her eyes off him, his entire face filled with happiness when it was a mask of pain and confusion not moments earlier. "Aye, if she wants a burger, I will procure her one. See you in a bit."

"Did Mary Margaret have the baby?"

"Aye." His voice is soft, a touch of wistfulness that makes her uncomfortable with the way his eyes study her. "You don't have to come with me, but I…"

"Of course I'll go with you. I like David. And Mary Margaret was nice those few times I saw her." Emma hasn't spent much time with Mary Margaret – a rough pregnancy with the last few months on bedrest made visits to the Nolan residence scarce. "Did I hear we need to stop at In'N'Out?"

"Aye. Dave says she's been telling him for hours he's to fetch her a burger, but they're not open yet."

Emma laughs, the tension broken between them as he steps around her to unlock the door. "Then I guess we better make sure we're there when they open."

"I suspect he would be much obliged. He doesn't want to leave."

"No, I guess not." The sudden rush of regret and longing slams into her unexpectedly at his words, because while she didn't exactly have the option to _leave_ her hospital room, she let her son go without so much as a word of protest. "I'll go shower now so we can leave right away," she says over her shoulder as she hurries down the hall, avoiding his too-perceptive eyes.

She stands under the water and counts to ten over and over until her chest isn't quite so tight anymore. She knows she shouldn't take so long – Killian still needs to shower, too, and she was too flustered to think about taking her things into one of the other bathrooms – but she needs the time to gain control over herself.

If Killian notices something is off, he doesn't say anything. She still feels awkward around him, but it's easier to tease him about his insistent stops for a card, flowers, and a ridiculous stuffed bear, than it is to sit in silence. By the time they get to the hospital, Emma has nearly convinced herself things have returned to normal.

But she isn't ready for the emotional rollercoaster of stepping into the maternity ward.

She can't help herself, her thoughts wandering down a path best left alone. She gave birth in a prison medical ward – what if she hadn't? What if she had been _here_ , in a nice, clean hospital with flowers and a happy father-to-be? With the weight of Killian's arm around her shoulders, she can't prevent herself from glancing up at him, from wondering _what if_ …

 _Stop_. She gives herself a firm mental shake, her eyes darting back to the walls and floor, anywhere but the soft smile on his face. Yesterday, she was angry with him for kissing her – angry at herself for giving into her desire for him. How could she possibly be thinking about him as a father?

She forces a smile when they enter Mary Margaret's room, Killian relinquishing his hold on her to set down the stuffed bear and food. He turns to greet David in a back-slapping hug of congratulations, the two men grinning at each other before Killian turns back to Mary Margaret. "My lady," he says, picking up the food and presenting the white, yellow and red bag to her with a flourish, "Your breakfast."

"Thank you, _Killian_." Mary Margaret shoots a glare at her husband, but she's smiling. Emma doesn't want to be jealous, doesn't want to envy this happy family, but the green monster rattles its cage anyway as she places the flowers Killian bought on the small nightstand. Mary Margaret beams with joy in spite of her obvious exhaustion, her son cradled protectively in her arms, and all Emma wants to do is leave. "Emma, it's so nice to see you. Hopefully we'll be seeing more of you now that I'm not trapped in a bed all the time!"

"That would be great!" Emma puts as much fake cheer into the words as she can, leaning down to awkwardly hug the new mother, careful of the baby. She knew David and Mary Margaret were having a boy, but it hurts more than she thought it would, seeing the soft blue blanket curled around the delicate fingers and toes. She never held her son – she never looked down at him in her arms with wonder and pride like Mary Margaret is doing now.

She never had a proud father beaming beside her like David, his joy so obvious he practically glows.

"And there's the little lad." Killian's arm slips around her waist, his voice soft and awe-filled, and she tells herself his touch is for show, that there is _nothing_ especially tender about the way he's tucked her close against his body, his thumb brushing against her hip.

"Would you like to hold him?" Mary Margaret offers Killian, her gaze flickering to the greasy paper bag on the hospital tray. "I really need to eat that burger."

Killian laughs, and Emma steps back, grateful he requires two arms to carefully gather up his friend's son into his arms. She expects to feel calmer without Killian in her space, but she isn't prepared for the sight of him with a baby in his arms, his face lit up, beaming at his best friend like a proud uncle. Her throat tightens and her chest aches, and _damn it_ , she can't be feeling like this.

This is a _job_. He might be her friend now, he might even care for her, but in another eight months, he'll be on a movie set and she'll be moving on with her life. She can't look at him holding a baby with these friends of his that are practically family and wonder _what if_.

 _What if_ means telling him things she doesn't want to remember, never mind relive in the telling. His reaction to her apartment was bad enough. What would he say if knew about the jail time? How could he ever understand the decision she'd made to give up her son? The way he's looking at David's baby boy, amazement and wonder in his eyes, she doesn't think he could.

Despite the picture the media has painted of him, Emma has gotten to know the man these last few months. He's thoughtful and his emotions run deep. She's still angry about his harsh words last night, but it doesn't change that with that one exception, he's been nothing but kind to her.

Killian would never understand how a mother could give her child up.

"Emma?"

She realizes too late he's said her name several times, a hint of concern in his expression as he watches her. "Sorry," she says lamely, grasping for anything she can to explain herself. "That run earlier really wore me out. What did you say?"

"Mary Margaret asked if you'd like to hold Leo?"

Emma's eyes dart to the woman in question, Mary Margaret's smile bright, happily eating her french fries. "Um, I actually need to use the restroom," she blurts out, forcing another smile as panic claws at her throat. "I'll just...I'll be right back."

She practically sprints out of the room, struggling to keep her breathing even. It's been a long time since she's found herself in this place, half-trapped in decade old memories, second-guessing her decisions and life choices. She needs to just find a bathroom to lock herself in, find some silence and quiet to force these feelings back into their box and face the happy, bright people in that hospital room.

She needs her arms to stop shaking so damn badly before she even thinks about holding a child.

The bathroom is nearly in her reach, her hand on the doorknob to haul it open when she finds Killian behind her, brows furrowed and jaw tight. She doesn't have time to protest before he ushers them both into the bathroom and throws the lock.

"What's wrong?" he asks without preamble, his eyes not leaving her face.

"I'm…"

"Don't lie to me, Swan. I've never seen you like this. What's the matter?"

She shrugs helplessly, biting down on the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from pouring down her face. She _can't_ cry, she _won't_ cry, not now with him looking at her the way he is, like he wants to protect her and interrogate her all at once.

Not with the memories of last night still fresh in her mind – that kiss and their fight and the way he looked on the patio – it's too damn _much_ with everything else tangling her thoughts right now.

"Emma."

"It's been a long couple of days…"

"We made a promise, love." The words are gentle, but the determination hasn't left his gaze.

"Fine, you want to talk about truth? What was your problem last night?" she finally snaps, a trace of anger flaring back to life. How _dare_ he bring up that promise again? That promise that seemed so right at the time, a show of faith in an awkward situation, but all it seems to be doing lately is complicating things more and more. She latches on to her anger, lets it take her down a less dangerous path than the truth behind why she fled the hospital room. "I know I said it was over, but I have to know _why_ you were such…"

"I was out of line." He takes a deep breath, scrubbing his hands over his face and leaning back into the door. "I admit, the sight of you in that dress had a bit to do with it, but Hunter and that film…" He stops again, as if weighing his words carefully, before he continues. "I haven't told you the whole story about Gold's wife – Milah – and this is not the time. But suffice to say, Graham was involved with her after, perhaps during, my time with her. And when I saw you standing there with him, the way he was looking at you…" He shrugs, holding up his hands almost helplessly. "I apologize, Emma, truly. I let my temper get the better of me, and I should not have said the things I did."

"And that kiss?"

Something sparks in his eyes, an ember that could erupt into flames at any moment. "I regret how I handled it, but I can't find it in myself to regret kissing you," he says quietly, holding her stare. "I won't do it again without your permission," he adds quickly, but it does nothing to slow her suddenly racing heart. "Should Regina...require...something of the sort, we will discuss it first. I won't...I won't surprise you."

"You can't."

"Aye, I understand."

"Okay."

He watches her, shoulders tense and jaw tight. She struggles to remain still under his examination – he sees too much, he sees _through_ her, and even if she's changed the topic of the conversation, she suspects he knows last night isn't the reason she practically ran out of Mary Margaret's hospital room.

"There's something else." It isn't a question, and Emma hates that she's right – he knows her better than she would like to believe. She looks away, staring at the print on the wall rather than at his too perceptive expression. "Emma. Talk to me. Mary Margaret is worried she said something to upset you."

"I never had a family," she finally says, reaching for the least harmful piece of the truth once it becomes clear he isn't going to let this go. "My parents abandoned me on the side of the highway when I was days old. I have no idea who they are, or why they did it, but no one ever _wanted_ me. That kid is hours old, and he has so many people who already _want_ him. It's just a reminder of all that, and I guess I wasn't prepared for how much it would bring it all back up."

"I want you, Emma. You have to know that, even with my poor behavior last night." His voice is a plea and a promise, and she doesn't want to hear either.

"You want me _now_ , when I've made myself unavailable. I'm a means to an end." She barely believes the words herself anymore, but to admit to anything else would be a step over a line there's no coming back from.

"Are you calling me a liar, then? Do you honestly believe I didn't mean it when I kissed you last night?" His voice shakes, and Emma can't tell if it's because of emotion or temper – she doesn't dare look into his eyes to find out. She knows the reason he exploded on her last night; it was her lie – _Of course I kissed you back! You_ knew _I would have to kiss you back! We were in front of_ an entire room full of people _that are under the impression I'm apparently your_ possession! – that set him off.

Lies are a sensitive topic with him.

She sighs, forcing herself to meet his troubled gaze. "No, I think _you_ _think_ you mean it – and you yourself said you let your temper get the better of you last night. That kiss was about jealousy as much as anything else."

He stares at her silently, a war waging in his eyes. "You are twisting what I've said. I don't give my word lightly, Emma," he says eventually, his expression serious. "I have been lied to too many times to do it to another."

"I'm not lying."

"That's not what I said, love. But you're not telling me the whole of it, either. You didn't only kiss me for appearances last night. You could have stopped it much earlier than I did. You didn't. You were right there with me in that moment. And there's more you're not saying now."

She doesn't bother denying it – the truth is becoming a hazy enough thing between them as it is. "It would take days to tell you all of it," she says instead, her eyes sliding shut wearily because she just can't look at him, concerned and worried and like he really _does_ care.

"I lost my parents when I was a lad. First my mother, then my father. My brother took charge of me when I was eleven, but I lost him too when I was seventeen. So I came here to start over – to Los Angeles because of a drunken wager. Regina saw something in me worth saving, and the rest, as they say, is history." He rattles the facts off with the coolness of a newscaster, but he's made his point – she can tell him what's happened in her life in a condensed version if she pleases.

"I'm sorry," she says instead of telling him what he wants to hear, shifting her weight from foot to foot. It's delaying the inevitable, and she knows it, but her past is something she's clung to for so long, a way of keeping him not _really_ a part of her life. Telling him changes things, and she's not ready.

"I don't want your pity. We're much more alike than you're willing to admit, love. This is what I was trying to tell you that evening on the patio, about your old apartment. I understand much more than you realize. Try trusting me. I'm not going anywhere."

"Not yet."

"Emma…"

It's the final straw, and something inside of her snaps. "I was arrested when I was seventeen. My ex stole some watches and set me up to take the fall, but I knew they were stolen when he sent me to go get them, so when I got arrested, I didn't argue. It's not like anyone would have believed me, anyway. I had stolen plenty myself before that. I spent eleven months in jail. I was a thief. I deserved it." She says it slowly, reciting the facts like it's someone else's life she's talking about. She's not telling him this to share – she wants him to back off, wants him to look at her with something other than that damn concern of his.

"I'm not going anywhere," he repeats, a hint of stubbornness in the words. He pushes off the door, reaching for her. She braces herself for his touch, braces herself to keep the rest of her secrets buried, because there's a part of her that wants to just tell him the entire truth now that she's started, wants to admit _all_ of it and see if he still looks at her the way he is right now.

"Killian…"

A knock on the door startles them both, but it breaks the moment. She nods toward the door before he can touch her, plastering a smile back on her face. "We should get back. They'll wonder where we've gone."

He looks like he wants to argue, but the knock is more insistent the second time. He runs his hand through his hair in frustration, but he gestures toward the door. "Aye, after you."

The entire afternoon is a struggle. Emma's cheeks hurt from the amount of fake smiling she's doing, and her shoulders ache with tension. It doesn't help when Regina texts Killian to expect the press outside of the hospital, and there's another round of fake smiles and fake poses and this whole damn fake life that sometimes seems a little too real.

Emma's distance doesn't improve once they leave the hospital. He doesn't try to talk to her in the car, not when her shoulders are set as they are and her brow creased with dark thoughts.

He knows there's more, a secret she isn't willing to reveal just yet, but he resists the urge to question her anymore on the topic. He's pushed as far as he's willing to push; it's become clear if he presses the matter he'll end up pushing her right over the edge. She'll tell him when – if – she feels comfortable enough. It's partially his own fault she's not in a revealing mood – he may have explained himself earlier, his reasons for his behavior last night, but it doesn't excuse any of it.

He still has plenty to prove.

She goes out onto the patio with a book when they get home, lost in her thoughts. He's careful not to crowd her, taking another lounge chair for himself with a script Regina sent over last week he's been putting off reading.

It's peaceful. The afternoon sun sinks low in the sky, and when Killian suggests dinner, Emma doesn't argue. She simply nods and follows him into the house. But that's all she does – she follows his instructions to dice and chop and eat, her thoughts obviously elsewhere.

He catches her hand as she walks past with their dishes, taking the stack gently from her and setting it on the counter. "Killian, I don't want to talk…"

"I know," he interrupts, pushing the hair back from her eyes and running his thumb along her cheek. He wants to kiss her so desperately in that moment, wants to _make_ her understand that this stopped being a job to him some time ago, but he sees the fear in her eyes – and he made a promise. So instead, he gathers her close, holding her loosely at first in case she wants to back away. It's a pleasant surprise when she doesn't, and his embrace tightens as her fist closes around his shirt, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. He feels her shudder, her body molding itself to his. He savors the moment her body relaxes, his eyes closing in relief at this small sign that maybe, just maybe, she's starting to trust him.

He isn't sure how long they stand in the middle of the kitchen, but his shirt grows damp with the slight tremor of her shoulders. Emma is one of the strongest people he's ever met, and it breaks a piece of his heart to feel her tears on his shirt. Her falling apart now in his arms brings on a sense of helplessness he isn't fond of.

He runs his fingers through her hair, down her back, shelters her from her demons the best he can. He never wants to see her like she was this afternoon again – haunted and terrified and broken, tears in her eyes she refused to shed.

She pulls away from him eventually, wiping at her eyes and mumbling an apology.

"Emma." He tugs her back, gently tilting her chin up to look into her glassy eyes. "I'm here, all right?"

"Okay."

They clean up together, but she's still quiet, reserved. He's surprised when she follows him to bed, but she's gone when he wakes an hour later, and he sighs into the pillow, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

It's not a shock that she's not there, and his heart aches all the more for it. The house is quiet, but if he listens closely, he can hear the low buzz of the mixer in the kitchen. He wants to go to her, to make her smile with stolen chocolate or outlandish recipe suggestions, but tonight isn't the night for that.

She's coming around, slowly – she let him hold her in the kitchen earlier, didn't fight him. But now she needs to be alone, and however much he hates knowing he's not the solution to all her problems, he has to give her space, especially after the last twenty-four hours. He's learned the hard way that Emma doesn't do well when she feels boxed in.

It's a restless sleep without her in the bed, but he jolts awake at his name being whispered in the dark. "Are you awake?" she asks, her voice so soft he wonders in the haze of sleep if perhaps it's a dream.

"Aye."

She hesitates, but he can feel the shift of her weight on the mattress, blinking in the darkness to catch a glimpse of her hands are on the wall of pillows between them. A sliver of hope worms its way into his heart as she throws one, then another on the floor. "Just for tonight," she says as she gets into bed. "I just need…"

"You don't have to explain." Her skin is cool from the air-conditioning, and the scent of sugar clings to her as he pulls her back to his chest, breathing in her hair as his arm curls around her waist. "Mmm, you smell delicious. What was tonight's selection?"

"Hmmm?" It's late, and she has to be tired, but he's surprised by how sleepy she sounds as she adjusts her head on her pillow. She usually fidgets about before settling in for the night, restless, but tonight her body relaxes back against his, almost as if in relief.

"You were baking cupcakes, yes?" he asks quietly, afraid of disturbing the intimacy between them in the dark, his thumb almost subconsciously stroking the sliver of exposed skin at her hip. He barely knows why he's asking, but the cupcakes have always been a tell. Having her here, snuggled up against him, should be enough, but he _needs_ the confirmation.

"Oh. Red velvet. Cream cheese frosting," she mumbles, pressing her shoulders back against him. Her voice is already thick, and she draws the blanket over both of them.

He smiles into her hair, letting his own eyes slide shut. "Sleep, love," he murmurs, tightening his hold on her and breathing deeply until sleep reclaims him.

She puts the pillows back the next night, but this time, he doesn't mind. He's caught a glimpse over her walls, and one of these days, if he's lucky, they'll all come tumbling down.

* * *

This one was on the long side, but I'm sure none of you minded ;)

Many, many thanks to onceuponsomechaos for the speedy beta job on this one. If it wasn't for your stubbornness and determination to help me make this chapter (and all the others) perfect, this wouldn't have gone up until tomorrow.

Also, thanks to everyone who sent me messages encouraging me to feel better. Y'all are too sweet. I have had gallons of tea to drink and believe I am in fact on the mend. But feel free to leave me some love to speed along recovery ;)

See you with the next one in a few days!


	11. Chapter 11

Their routine returns to normal, a steady stream of media events, award shows and Regina-assigned tasks to keep the press machine running smoothly, but as the weeks go by, there's a shift Emma can't ignore.

It began that afternoon in the hospital. She didn't mean to say quite as much as she did, but once it was out there, once _his_ story was out there, it's been impossible to go back to pretending he doesn't matter.

He matters. He might matter _too_ much, but she tries to ignore that nagging doubt and just enjoy the comfort of his friendship, the time they spend together. He's the first true friend she's had in a long time, and there's something worth cherishing about that.

But it's more than that – he's kept his word, not pushing for more, and slowly but surely, she relaxes around him, accepts she's a part of his life now. At least for the next six months. After that...well, she tries not to think about what comes next.

He's in the kitchen with her again, another late night baking session, when he gets it in his head he wants to learn to pipe frosting. "It appears quite simple when you do it," he insists, gesturing to the piping bag as she swirls vanilla frosting over the latest batch of cupcakes.

"It's not that hard. C'mere." Emma smiles in invitation, placing an unfrosted cupcake onto the counter in front of her.

He stands next to her, their hips nearly pressed together as she wraps his fingers around the piping bag, trying to show him how to hold it. Finding it too awkward to use her opposite hand, she moves behind him, her right hand covering his as she leans against him. She tries not to think about the warmth of his body against hers, how nearly every inch of her is plastered against him. This is a frosting lesson, she tells herself sternly. Nothing more.

"Relax." Every muscle in his back is tight, noticeable knots under her palm. "You want to hold it loosely so the frosting comes out evenly. Too tight and it just makes a mess."

He chuckles, the reverberation sending a shiver down her spine. "Is that so, Swan?" He glances back at her, heat simmering in his gaze.

Her cheeks burn at his words, making her grateful she's behind him and difficult to see. "Squeeze lightly," she says, ignoring the innuendo – only to watch frosting shoot across the kitchen.

The comical, genuine surprise in his wide eyes might be the best part.

"Bloody hell!"

She raises an eyebrow at him, reaching for the roll of paper towels as he continues to curse under his breath. "Apparently you need to work on your technique."

His smile turns predatory as his eyes track her across the kitchen. "I assure you, love, there is nothing wrong with my _technique_."

Emma bursts out laughing, because it's late, and he's ridiculous, and she's pretty sure he's gotten frosting in his own hair somehow. Her laughter breaks the tension between them, the charged air easing back into less dangerous territory as they clean up the mess together.

But when she finally closes her eyes, all she can see is the way his gaze stalked her across the kitchen, hungry and unrelenting.

The next day is another event. They're walking the red carpet for an awards show. Killian is nominated for best villain, not that he is entirely pleased about it given the typecast he's working so hard to lose. But an award is an award, and even if he wanted to get out of it, Regina would never agree. His manager is a force of nature when she wants to be. Even six months into this adventure, Emma does her best to stay out of the woman's way.

It's one of those beautiful nights in Los Angeles, where the setting sun paints the sky pink, there's a light breeze off of the ocean, and the air is warm without being hot. The dress Tink put her in tonight is gorgeous – pale pink satin that leaves her shoulders bare, showing off her tan and cascading blonde curls. It's not often she feels pretty and _delicate_ , but this dress does it.

She's shocked when a member of the media asks her a question directly that isn't _what are you wearing_ or _how long did it take you to get ready tonight_. Part of Killian's life or not, it's the first time the press seems to take note of her as anything other than an accessory.

"So, Emma, give us some dirt on Killian. Tell us one thing he does that his fans would never guess." The reporter smiles widely, all shiny white teeth and lip gloss, and Emma freezes for a second, her eyes darting up to his.

He chuckles, squeezing his hand where it rests on her hip and leaning forward to whisper in her ear. "Tell them whatever you like, love."

She nods, and their eyes hold a beat longer than necessary. There's something soft in him tonight, almost tender, and she wants to fight it, wants to be hard enough for both of them, but it's impossible to push him away.

So she turns back to the reporter with a sly smile. If they want a story, she's got the perfect cute couple scene for them. The fact that not a word of it is fabricated – or that she doesn't have to think about it for second – is a thought for another night.

"I'm sort of nocturnal, and I like to bake. He keeps me company. I think he secretly likes sitting in the kitchen with me at midnight." Emma smiles for the camera, but her eyes drift toward his again. It's just not just the softness in his eyes – there's a touch of something else, something just a little bit _more_ that makes her unable to look away.

"I help!" he says, interjecting as he leans forward to speak into the microphone. He's grinning wildly at her as he straightens – he does very little helping.

"Sometimes he helps," Emma admits, struggling to turn her eyes back to the reporter. But she just can't help herself, her own grin turning into a smirk as her eyes flit up toward him again. "Mostly he steals stray pieces of chocolate. Or fights losing battles with frosting."

The reporter practically squeals into the microphone. Killian's body presses just slightly against hers, and she's about to turn away with a polite smile when the microphone is back in her face. "What's your favorite dessert to make together?"

"Devil's food cupcakes with chocolate frosting." Killian answers immediately, his eyes on hers instead of the camera. She's instantly lost in the memory of that first night in his house. He slid onto a stool, keeping her insomnia company as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Still strangers, but he was already going of his way to make her happy in spite of having no reason to do so.

By the tenderness in his eyes, she's not the only one reliving that night.

It's too easy to slip into this role of Killian's girlfriend. When she looks at him, she doesn't have to fake the affection or warmth. Moments like this, when she remembers their nights in the kitchen, a cozy sort of pleasure floods through her. He's not an assignment in those precious pockets of time – he's just a man who makes her laugh, especially when she thinks about last night's frosting lesson.

She laughs again thinking about it now, belatedly realizing the reporter hasn't taken her eyes off them, a dreamy expression on her face. That makes Emma nervous, but Killian leads them away with a polite goodnight, his hand shifting to the small of her back.

"All I'm going to be able to think about now are chocolate cupcakes, Swan," he mutters in her ear as they move in front of the photographers, his arm snaking around her to pull her against his chest. She tilts closer, her torso tight against his and her hand easily falling on his shoulder. They've gotten good at this part, posing together. It's easier than it should be, her body snug against his.

It should frighten her, the way the alarm bells have grown quieter, easier to ignore. It's harder to figure out what's real between them and what isn't – is he holding her so closely now because the cameras are on them? Or is he taking advantage of the cameras to touch her because he _wants_ to? It's a question she finds herself wrestling with more often than not.

They're moving again before she can think too hard on it. People come up to Killian, some she's met, some she hasn't. There are plenty of well-wishers for his nomination, and she can't help but smile at him every time their eyes meet. She _wants_ him to win – to get the validation he craves, that his acting is good enough, that _he's_ good enough.

She wishes _she_ could convince him he's good enough.

When they get to his nomination, she tightens her grip, their fingers already laced together. She smiles up at him as his name is called, a clip playing from the movie, but her eyes are on him. She's done it without intending to, without thinking that it would look good for the cameras – she just needs to support him in this.

She squeezes his hand harder as the presenter opens the envelope with the winner's name, and when his name is announced, she throws her arms around him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. He's so stunned – whether by her affection or the win, she can't tell – that she has to give his shoulder a gentle shake. "You won," she whispers in his ear, tugging his hand to get him on his feet. "Go!"

He beams down at her as he stands, stealing another quick kiss before jogging up the steps to the stage. It takes a moment for the crowd to quiet, and Emma leans back in her seat, grinning like an idiot to see him so happy.

He thanks the producers, the directors, his co-stars. He thanks his manager for talking him into taking the role.

"And lastly, I want to thank the beautiful, amazing woman who chooses to believe in me no matter what. I love you, Emma. Thank you!" He steps back from the podium, and he's ushered backstage before Emma can even process his words.

She's aware of the cameras – too aware – as she keeps the smile on her face, a sharp pain slicing through her as she struggles to not let her expression shift into one of horror. His speech tears through her, jagged, deep slashes that leave her raw and exposed to this theater full of people.

Because he can't possibly have meant it – they're not in _love_. She knows he wants her, desires her; at this point, she'll accept he cares for her. But to stand in front of all of these people and say he _loves_ her…it's too goddamn much.

Behind her calm expression, her emotions are a violent storm, thoughts raging against one another. Why has he done this? Why does he have to remind her _today_ – when she's let herself feel safe in his arms, when she's stood on a press line and given up a real part of herself – that he _doesn't_ love her, that he'll _never_ love her. This isn't real – Emma doesn't get a fairytale romance with a handsome prince. That's not her lot in life; that's _never_ been her lot in life. She's come to terms with that, accepted it, and but then he stood up there and talked about loving her like it's an actual possibility, like maybe her story could be rewritten before the end.

She's furious he's once again stepped so far over the line they've established without so much as a warning. This is worse than the kiss. The kiss was jealousy and male pride – this is a betrayal of trust, as though he's taken the warmth between them and twisted it into a PR stunt. It's another reminder she's lost all control over her life and her emotions, thanks to some scheme he undoubtedly drew up with Regina but neglected to tell her about.

Her heart aches, because for a fraction of a second, she almost believed him, _wanted_ to believe him.

She stays in her seat as long as she can before fleeing to the bathroom. She considers just escaping the theater entirely, but she knows she can't – one of the hundreds of cameras will catch her leaving and then it'll be plastered all over the tabloids.

Besides, it will only delay the inevitable – she lives in _his_ house.

Thankfully, the awards show wraps up before Killians returns. He finds her eventually, waiting on a bench in the theater lobby. He's been to the pressroom, and he's holding the award in his hand with a deep contentment in his eyes she wishes she could be happy about – but she's still hurt and terrified of what he said up on that stage.

"Ready to go, love?" he asks cheerfully, sliding his arm around her shoulders. "I thought we could prepare something chocolatey to celebrate."

She just nods.

His eyebrows knit together, and for a moment, concern replaces his happiness. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah. These shoes are just killing me." It's not a lie – her pacing in the bathroom has made her little toe feel like it may have been chafed out of existence – but it's not exactly the truth either.

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to her hair. "You can take them off the moment we get in the car."

It's a quiet ride home, but he's got his phone in his hand, fielding calls and texts from friends and well-wishers. The award sits on the seat beside them, and Emma does her best not to glare at it.

Things were going so well for them. She was comfortable with him, with their friendship, with having someone to lean on – but he's ruined it. Whatever trust she's managed to place in him has shattered in the face of his behavior tonight. They're not in this together, no matter what he says. Tonight has been a painful reminder of who calls the shots.

She lifts her hair for him to unzip the dress as they enter his bedroom, silent as he drags the zipper down. He's doing it again, his hands lingering on her, but she steps away without looking at him. "I'm going to grab a shower, if you don't mind," she says to the wall. "They put a lot of gunk in my hair."

"Of course, love." His voice carries a hint of confusion, but she doesn't stick around long enough for him to question her stiff shoulders.

She thinks the shower will calm her, but it doesn't. She stews as the hot water pours over her, the hurt and frustration simmering into a burning rage. How _could_ he? And not so much as an explanation after he did it? No warning? He couldn't have just said, _Regina says we have to up our game. I'm going to tell the whole world I love you tonight. Be ready for that._

By the time she shuts the water off, Emma has decided she's going to confront him about it. He can't complicate it more between them. They have another six months to go before they hit their expiration date, and she _can't_ spend that long pretending to be in love with him. It's one thing to let a friendship develop, to stand beside him in front of the camera, smile, kiss his cheek – but she can't fake love. She _won't_.

She heads for the closet wrapped up in a fluffy towel, avoiding him until she can get dressed. He's lying on the bed, his arm flopped over his eyes and his phone resting on his chest. Regina's voice carries as she slips into the closet and she can't help a twitch of her lips as she realizes he's got it on speakerphone. The man can work so hard sometimes – and be so lazy at others.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Regina's voice is sharp, carrying easily into the closet, and Emma doesn't know if the words are a relief or another nail in the coffin. "Whatever feelings you've developed for the girl, you need to get a handle on it. Keep your eye on the prize, Jones." Emma winces, because that seals it – Regina did not tell him to say the things he said. He did it on his own, no pushing or prodding required.

"My eye is on the prize, Regina. Don't worry your pretty little head, darling. I didn't mean a word of it." His voice is casual, as though the words mean nothing. Pain slams into her, and Emma clamps her hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp. She doesn't even know _why_ she's so upset, because this is just confirmation – she's already figured this part out, hasn't she? She never actually thought he _meant_ it...did she?

But it's not only that. She's spent her entire shower working herself up to lay into him, to express in no uncertain terms he can't make plans with Regina and blindside her with them. She was positive Regina's hand was in this, that he wouldn't be so callous all on his own, but his words tell a different story.

 _He_ made this decision. _He_ got up there and said he was in love with her, all while carefully avoiding referring to her as his girlfriend.

It's not that she _wants_ him to be in love with her. She's resisted any and all attempt on his part to form something beyond a friendship, beyond their arrangement. He's told her he cares about her, and she accepts that – she cares about him too. But there's a gaping chasm between _care about_ and _I love you_. To pretend otherwise is to be careless with her emotions, and Killian is a lot of things, but she's never known the man to be careless.

She doesn't know how long she stands the middle of the closet wrapped in a towel, staring at nothing, trying to control her reaction to words she wasn't meant to hear. She isn't even aware of the tears pouring down her cheeks until the wetness drips onto her chest.

He's still talking, but Emma can't hear the words beyond the low rumble of his voice. She's too lost in her own circling thoughts – she has no right to be upset. Faking it is their _job_. He's an _actor_. None of this is _real_.

But it doesn't change the fact that she aches like her heart has been torn from her chest and stomped to pieces before her eyes – which is the exact feeling she's been struggling so hard to avoid.

She doesn't hear him come into the closet, doesn't even know he's there until his callused fingertips fall on her shoulder. "Emma? You all right, love?"

"I'm fine." She doesn't turn to him, just tightens the towel around herself and shrugs off his touch. "I just need to get dressed."

He doesn't move from behind her, but she can hear the shifting of his weight on the carpet. "Have you…have you been in here long?"

"You mean did I hear your conversation with Regina." She manages to make it a statement, flat and cool. She pulls clothes from the dresser, mindlessly assembling some form of outfit to get her out of this room and away from him.

"You misunderstand. I…"

"I understand just fine." She slams the drawer shut, grabbing up the handful of clothes and trying to push past him. "I'll get dressed in the bathroom since you're still in here."

"Emma!" He catches her arm as she's passing, and it's pure instinct that makes her look up at him. She wishes she hadn't, because the second their eyes meet there's no hiding she's been crying.

He curses under his breath, reaching to pull her closer, but she rips her arm away. "There's no need for you to touch me, Killian. There are no cameras in here."

"It wasn't a lie," he calls after her, his voice thick, the words carrying an edge of desperation. She stops in the doorway, her back straight and her fingers tight around the doorframe.

"The fucked up part is I have no idea which _it_ you mean."

"What I said on stage." He's behind her again, his palm resting lightly on her arm. The words are barely a whisper, and she should turn around, face him, look in his eyes and see the truth, but he's a damn fine actor and she doesn't trust herself.

"I didn't intend to say it. I…I got up on that stage, and I looked out, and you were so _happy_ for me. I've learned the difference when you're faking for a camera. You were _really_ happy tonight. For me. So when I started to speak, I didn't think on what words I should or shouldn't say. I didn't think about cameras or Regina or that damn movie role. I just said how I felt."

"That you love me."

His hand slides down her arm, tugging on her elbow until she's facing him. "I've been in love with you for some time, Emma. Surely you had to know."

"You told Regina it was a lie." She ignores his confession completely, her mind unable to stop the soundtrack of his callous words.

"Aye. Because I hadn't a chance to talk with you, and frankly, it's none of her bloody business what happens between you and me in private anymore. She can tell us how to behave on a press line, but I'll be damned if she tells us what to do in our home."

"Your home," she whispers, her eyes sliding shut as she swallows thickly, fighting more tears.

"Emma…"

"I don't believe you," she cuts in, struggling to keep herself under control. "This is a business transaction. It always has been. I think we've both forgotten that. I'm going to sleep in the other room tonight, take some space. No one will be here tomorrow to know the difference."

His hands thread into her hair before she knows what's hit her, her back to the doorframe as he invades her space, his other hand braced above her head. He leans in, his lips nearly touching hers as the damp heat of his breath washes over her skin. "Does this feel like a bloody business transaction to you?" His demand is hoarse, his hips anchoring her to the door frame.

He's so close she can see every one of his thick eyelashes brush against his cheek when he blinks, the flecks of grey in his eyes. And those eyes...those eyes are _begging_ her to answer, but she's frozen in place, clutching the towel that does nothing to stop her from feeling every inch of him pressed against her tighter.

"Does it?"

She can't answer him – not when every bone in her body is screaming an answer she doesn't want to acknowledge. But her control is a tenuous at best, and her heart is already racing from his closeness, from the thought that he might kiss her and she _wants_ him to.

But he doesn't. He just stares at her, waiting.

All it takes is a tilt of her head and her lips are on his, unleashing a pent up desire that travels down her spine and settles low in her belly. He responds in kind, an aggressive, needy kiss that makes her want so much more than she can possibly have.

She kisses him, because god, she wants to believe everything he's said to her in the last five minutes – she wants to believe she can be more than business transaction – but she _can't_. So instead, she savors the taste of him, the firm muscles under her palms, the fire that sparks to life every time he touches her. This is the part that's real between them – and it's not about love.

She shoves him back with a low moan, her heart constricting painfully. She can't do this. She can't _look_ at him right now, knowing every emotion, every hope, is laid bare on his face. Never mind that kiss – that kiss has plenty of things to say too, but she can't hear a word of it over the roar of her own thoughts.

"I shouldn't have...I can't…" she manages to choke out, backing away from him before he can touch her – if she kisses him again, her resolve will crumble. She's makes the mistake of looking him in the eye for all of a second, and that's bad enough.

"Emma, I…" It's two simple words, but she hears every agonizing plea in them, sees it all over his face – frustration and hurt and desire and the same damn tenderness she saw earlier on the red carpet.

She turns away from him and slips out of the room, down the hall and into another room where she spends the night staring at the ceiling, unable to decide if she hopes he comes after her or not.

It doesn't matter in the end. The dawn arrives.

He doesn't.

* * *

Many thanks as always to onceuponsomechaos for the beta job. Any remaining mistakes should be blamed on me and my fiddling.

And, um, yeah...I'm just gonna go ahead and leave this here...


	12. Chapter 12

Emma does her best to steer clear of him for the next few days. It's strange, living with Killian but not _seeing_ him. She knows his training schedule with David. She intentionally works around it, leaving the house early and only returning when he's due to be elsewhere.

She runs on the beach. She attends yoga classes. She reads books in coffee shops, hiding behind sunglasses with a hat crammed over her hair. She hikes Runyon and the trails around Griffith Park. She tries to exhaust herself, praying perhaps that tonight will be the night she's tired enough to not lay awake, listening for him outside her door in spite of telling herself she doesn't _want_ him to be there.

She avoids him.

But she can't keep it up forever. He's supposed to be off with David improving his horseback riding skills on a ranch an hour outside of town, but she hears the two of them on the back patio as she walks into the house. Their laughter drifts through the windows open to the warm afternoon, and she's drawn to it.

She misses Killian's laugh.

She's sweaty and tired after another run on the trails at Griffith Park. Her sodden clothes cling to her, and her hair is likely plastered to her face, but she just drops her bag on the kitchen counter as she makes her way to the back of the house. David will expect her to make an appearance, so she might as well get it out of the way. Besides, she can smell the sweat on her clothes, and she has to look like a wreck. She can escape to the shower quickly enough.

Or maybe she and Killian can just call a truce. It's exhausting avoiding him. Exhausting and _hard_. She misses their closeness, the ease of the silence between them, the softness of his eyes in the middle of the night.

She's loathe to admit it, but she misses having him on the other side of the bed from her, the steadiness of his breathing as he sleeps.

They're in the lounge chairs by the pool, and the first sign of trouble is the amount of empty beer bottles littering the patio. David sees her first, offering up a dopey smile and wave of his hand. "Hey, Emma!" He's a little too enthusiastic, and it's the second sign she's about to be unhappy.

"I thought you two were going out to the ranch today," she says slowly as she eyes Killian. There's a nearly empty bottle of rum on the pavement next to his chair in addition to the beer bottles. He hasn't been belligerently drunk since that first day in Regina's office, but she's got a sneaking suspicion that's changed.

"'Fraid not, Swan." Killian's words run together, tripping over themselves as he lazily turns toward her. "My deepest apologies for having ruined your careful schedule of avoiding me." He smirks, a self-deprecating laugh escaping as he leans into his chair, head lolling back though his eyes are fixed on her. "Though since you're now here…" He pats the edge of the lounge chair, as though she might entertain the idea of curling up with him while she's soaked in sweat and he's drenched in rum. "Perhaps we could put this business behind us?" He leers at her, but there's something melancholy in it, as though he knows he doesn't stand a chance of his request being honored.

Emma stares at him, searching for words. She's angry more than anything, angry he's taken their argument as an excuse to crawl back into a bottle, especially when her first thought at hearing his laughter _was_ to put it behind them. But she's also just so damn tired – tired of sneaking out of the house at dawn, tired of hiding in her bedroom all night, too stubborn to even find refuge in her baking lest he be waiting for her.

She's tired of missing him, and tired of fighting that fact.

"The trainer took a bad fall and needed a few days off," David says when the silence grows awkward, frowning at Killian before turning to Emma. "Mary Margaret's mother is in town and has Leo for the afternoon, so… but I can go if…"

"No," Emma cuts in, not bothering to hide the weariness in her voice. Her hopes of a truce have vanished, and she's not even angry anymore – she's just disappointed. "You stay. You let him get like this. You deal with him. I'm not doing this today."

David winces, offering her an apologetic half-smile. "He was already into the rum when he called me. It was join him or leave him alone with the pool to drown in. It seemed better to keep an eye on him."

"I do not require minding, _Dave_." The fact that he nearly drops the rum bottle is a direct contrast to his slurred protest, and Emma can't help but sigh. "I'm fiiiiiine."

He is obviously far from fine, but Emma just _can't_ handle him like this. If she's going to talk to him about any of what's happened, if she's going to discuss _feelings_ , he'd damn well better be sober for it.

David's raised eyebrow seems like an accusation, and it's the last straw. She can't stay on this patio with them a moment longer. Her heart is already softening toward Killian, something undeniably sad in his slouched shoulders and glassy eyes.

She turns on her heel, escaping into the house and grabbing her bag from the counter. She can't stay in the house, knowing they're outside – a quick shower and then she's leaving again. She's not even sure where she'll go, but even if she sleeps in her car tonight, it's a better solution than subjecting herself to this.

Regina's words echo in her mind as she rushes through her shower, an almost eerie foreshadowing. _When he behaves badly – and rest assured, Miss Swan, he can't help himself and he will._

But the thing about it is, he _hasn't_ behaved badly. He's been charming and sweet and thoughtful. Their problems have been of another sort, where his behavior isn't _bad_ but it's not what they agreed to. Another woman – _many_ other women – would be more than happy with Killian's behavior up until this afternoon's round of binge drinking.

 _He said he loved me, and I walked away._

Emma groans with frustration, banging her fist against the tiled wall as the water streams over her. Does she even have any right to be upset with him? Isn't this her fault, in a way? There's no denying he's been handling his liquor without issue since they started their ruse, but something changed in him when she walked away from him the other night.

The man on the patio is broken – and she's the one who broke him.

But it's not just her fault – it's his, too. This isn't what they _agreed_ to. Emma didn't sign on the dotted line to be _in love_ with anyone. She doesn't do _in love_ anymore, not after how it ended for her the last time.

Not that he knows that. Not that he'll _ever_ know that.

* * *

With the amount of rum and beer he's had to drink this afternoon, there's not much he _knows_ except he's more in love with her than ever.

"What the hell was that all about?" David asks as Emma disappears back into the house, Killian unable to stop himself from staring after her.

Killian shrugs at David's question, reaching blindly for the rum bottle once more. His fingers are clumsy as he locates it, nearly tipping it over before he's able to steady his grip and bring the bottle to his lips.

The bloody woman hasn't left his thoughts for a single moment since she walked away from him. She haunts him in his waking hours, the memory of her warm body molding to his, the look in her eyes right before her lips brushed so softly against his. He was so certain for those precious seconds she saw reason – that he finally convinced her to give into the pull between them.

But he can't forget the tortured sound she made as she pushed him away, the terror in her eyes as she fled. It's the reason he hasn't pressed her; he's learned Emma's moods. She'll come around on her own – any attempt to force her will likely do more harm than good.

So he turned to an old friend, hoping to numb the loneliness until Emma's fears quiet enough for her to remember he's not the enemy.

"I haven't any bloody idea what to do with that woman. She's the most stubborn...but I love her. I love her and her bloody cupcakes and the way she looks at me when she's just woken up. She's taken to sleeping in another room, you know. She locks herself up for the night, and she hasn't baked a thing in days, and I don't even know if she's eating properly, but when you push her, she pushes back and I..." He stops, his mind slowly catching up to his drunken rambling.

David sips from his beer, leveling Killian with a look he's seen one too many times. "Did you…? I thought things were good between you. The other night…"

Killian's laugh is humorless. The other night. The other night is the reason he's in this mess, why he's sitting on his patio with David drinking himself into a stupor rather than baking stupid bloody cupcakes with Emma – not that he even really cares what they do. He just wants to be near her, see her smile, catch the scent of her shampoo when she's close.

He glances toward the house, wondering if she's even still inside or if she's left again. He's of half a mind to haul himself off the lounge chair and go find out, but the irritation in her eyes is a sure sign he would only make things worse in his current state.

She's been gone a lot since they had it out that night after the awards show. He thought his life was hollow before – now it's a desolate and vast wilderness of loneliness.

"It's all one big bloody mess. I haven't any idea how to repair it, and she won't so much as talk to me. Today's conversation was more than she's said in days." He takes another swig off the bottle, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. The sun is warm on his face and exposed arms, and he's had enough to drink that he could probably fall asleep right where he is.

Emma would love that, finding him on the patio at dawn, passed out in a lounge chair.

At least she'd bloody love something about him.

"What?" David's watching him carefully now, and Killian realizes with a dull sense of horror that he's said the last bit out loud. "Is that the problem? You told her you loved her and she didn't say it back?"

Killian finds David's question hilarious for some reason, the inappropriate laughter bursting out of him. "Say it back," he mutters in-between his laughter, fingers tightening on his drink as he manages to bring himself under control. "Of course she didn't bloody say it back. I wasn't supposed to say it in the first place." He scowls at the pool water, pristine and a deep blue under the clear sky.

He doesn't even know what possessed him to say it. Oh, he's in love with her – he's been in love with her for months. Hell, he was half in love with her the first night she spent in his house, messy hair and firelight softening her hard edges. But he _knows_ better – he knows Emma spooks easily, and he still had to open his bloody mouth and...

"You weren't supposed to tell her you love her?"

"I was not supposed to do a great many things I've done." He shouldn't have kissed her after Graham made him so jealous he could think of nothing else; he shouldn't have said what he did to Regina without talking to her first. "A man wants what he wants, mate, whether he's supposed to want it or not."

Somewhere in the depths of his rum-soaked brain, it occurs to him he should shut up. He's already said too much – but it's David. David, who has seen him through many a dark day.

"You aren't making any sense."

"Have some more rum, Dave." Killian holds out the bottle, his mood darkening further. Talking about the problem is only causes him to him dwell on it, old memories tangling with recent events to tear at his soul. "It makes far more sense with the rum. Well, that's not entirely true. But the rum does improve one's ability to not care about sense."

David sighs as he takes the offered rum. "Did you not tell her before you said it to the whole world or something?"

Killian just shrugs, the liquor's belligerence asserting itself once more. He holds his hand out, glaring at David's hesitation to return the bottle. "Give it here. We've long since passed the part where you lecture me on the vileness of drink."

David rolls his eyes, but he hands the bottle back. Killian sinks back into his chair, the burn of the liquor barely registering as he gulps it down, eyes closed. It's the same torture every time – behind his eyelids, Emma waits for him, lips darkened from their kisses, eyes bright with lust.

"How did you and Emma meet?"

Killian forces his eyes back open, scowling at the odd question. "Showing your age, mate. We've told this story a hundred times. Regina introduced us." It's the truth, after a fashion.

"Your manager set you up with a girl outside of the industry who used to track down criminals? How did Regina meet her?"

"I don't bloody know. She suggested Emma and I would get on, and she was right. Most days," he adds glumly, glancing over his shoulder at the silent house. He wishes he could reach her, wishes he could find a way to get back to where they were on that red carpet, when Emma barely took her eyes off of him, when she kissed him without having any other reason to do so but wanting to.

When it seemed like if he could just hold out a little longer, Emma would be his – for real.

"Were you not supposed to tell her you love her because you're not supposed to have any real feelings for her?"

Killian doesn't answer right away, staring into the pool as though it will magically produce a solution. The rum clouds his thoughts, but he fears David suspects the truth behind his relationship with Emma. He can either confirm it – revealing not only his secret, but Emma's too, possibly betraying her trust further – or he can lie to his best friend.

David grabs the rum bottle, and Killian doesn't stop him. He simply stares at the man, willing him to understand that there is no possible answer Killian can offer.

"It doesn't matter how it started," David finally says, and relief floods through him – he won't have to lie. "The situation has changed. You're an idiot if you think that woman doesn't care for you. You forget I've known you for a long time, Killian – I've seen how you look at her. She looks back. You need to fix it." He leans his head against the lounge chair, as though it's somehow that simple.

"And just how do you suppose I do that?" Killian ignores the rest of it, the flare of hope making his chest ache. He knows Emma cares for him – he's seen it in her eyes – but he's a greedy man. He doesn't just want her to _care_ ; he wants her to love him back.

Even if he's not sure he deserves her love.

David shrugs, turning his face to the sun. "You know her better than I do, but I suspect you start with getting your act together. She didn't seem particularly thrilled with the rum, so maybe try a sober conversation."

"You're a right bastard, Dave." By _right bastard_ , Killian means _you're right_ , but he doesn't much feel like admitting to that when he's already said more than he should. He takes another swig off the rum with a glare at David. "Your advice is poorly timed."

"Hey, I tried to stop you hours ago."

David stays for another hour before heading home himself, leaving Killian alone on the patio to contemplate his next move.

He told Emma he would to prove himself to her, to get her to believe he won't ruin her, but all he seems to be doing is making things worse. It's bad enough he's made her feel unwelcome in his home when he's in it. He should have known better today than to get as drunk as he has, but the rum is a familiar comfort – though even its welcome numbness can't fully erase his guilt.

The last few days have only sharpened his realization of how desperately in love with her he is. He misses her in their bed, which is saying a lot since nothing happens between them there but sleep. He misses the soft sound of her breathing, the scent of her hair on the pillows. He misses waking in the middle of the night to find her gone, but the kitchen bright with her energy as she spins sugar and flour and butter into confections that reveal a small part of her soul.

He wants to go back to that moment at the awards show, right before he said he loved her, when she was happy and smiling up at him – when she softened toward him, affectionate and telling a reporter about their midnight baking with such genuine fondness it was all he could do not to kiss her then and there.

Yet somehow, he's ruined it.

David's right. He needs to fix it.

A stumbling inspection of the house and driveway reveal she's definitely fled again, and he sighs, stretching out on the couch to wait for her. It will be easier to hear her come in from here than from the patio, but as he waits, the power of the liquor pulls him under.

The house is steeped in long shadows from the lowering sun when he wakes, his head throbbing and his mouth dry, but seemingly sober. He takes some aspirin, chugs down a glass of water, and checks the driveway.

Emma hasn't returned.

Cursing to himself, he pulls out his phone and tries to call her, but it goes straight to voicemail before it even rings. Puzzled, he hangs up and stares at the phone in his hand.

It's not like Emma to turn her phone off, and there aren't many places in the area without cell reception…though he can think of one.

Praying he's right, he grabs his car keys and heads out. He follows the twisting, winding roads down and over the freeway, until he reaches the overlook he took her to their first night alone together. It's a long shot, but he prays his hunch is right as he turns the final bend.

She's on the hood of her car, knees drawn up to her chest and chin resting on her arms, her eyes on the horizon as the sun sinks lower and lower in the sky. There's a breeze up here, and she has to be cold in her tank top, but she barely moves, only her hair swirling around with the wind.

"How did you know I was here?" she asks as he gets out of the car, not turning to look at him. She isn't wearing sunglasses, and it breaks another piece of his heart to see she's been crying. Her voice is flat, emotionless, but he can hear the strain of the tears.

He shrugs, coming to stand beside her. "I can be quite perceptive."

"I hope you're not still drunk." There's a hint of irritation in the words, but more than anything, she sounds like she hasn't slept in days.

"I'm not," he says quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets as he approaches her.

She falls silent again, but she doesn't protest when he slides onto the hood of the car with her after a minute. He hesitates another long moment before he wraps his arm around her shoulders, tugging her closer until her head rests on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says softly, his thumb caressing the exposed skin on her arm. "For all of it."

"Me too."

They don't speak after that, watching the sun as it sinks to its nightly rest, oranges and pinks streaking the sky. It's the calm before the storm – he isn't foolish enough to think this is the end of it. But Emma snuggles closer, and he savors the scent of her, the warmth of his arm around her chilled skin. It doesn't matter if she's only allowing this because they're in a public place, or whatever reason she's come up with to be affectionate for these few precious minutes. He isn't about to question it.

As darkness falls, he's loath to move, but it's growing colder and he can feel Emma shiver. He wants to stay in this space of time forever, her curled against him, snug in his arms and a quiet peace between them – but he can't. "Let's go home, love," he says gently, barely a whisper in her ear. "We should talk."

He eases off the car, tugging her along with him, but he can't let her go right away. Instead he pulls her into his arms, hugging her to his chest as he rests his cheek against her hair. He doesn't expect her to allow it, but she doesn't fight him, her palms sliding up his chest.

For a brief second, he thinks she's going to kiss him, her body pressing close to his, but by the time he leans back to look at her, her gaze is focused somewhere behind him.

"I'll see you at home?" It's not meant to come out as a question as he releases her, nervously twirling his car key in his palm.

She nods, turning back to her car without another word. He follows her back to the house, but once the front door has closed behind them, he doesn't know where to begin.

* * *

"Would you like a fire?" He's stalling and she knows it. But she goes along with it anyway, trailing after him into the living room and getting comfortable on the couch while he fiddles with the fireplace.

She can't help but watch him, light on his feet as ever. There's a grace to him – it's been one of the things she's always been drawn to. But as he straightens and their eyes meet, she sees a flare of frustration that mirrors her own.

"I need to clarify one thing, Swan. Earlier, when I said I was sorry for all of it, that wasn't the entire truth of the matter. I'm _not_ sorry I love you. You need to understand that, whatever happens next." The words are fierce and low, practically a growl, and Emma wants to believe him, but she's still so frustrated that he ruined what they had – what was _good_.

It's one of the many lies she's told herself today surrounding her feelings for Killian.

"You _can't_ love me. You don't even…Killian, you don't _know_ me. Not really. You know this version of me that I've been _paid_ to put together."

"I know you just fine. I understand full well you haven't told me the lot of it, but you've told me enough. You're not so adept at fooling me as you seem to think, love. On occasion, you're a bit of an open book."

Whatever peace existed between them burns to ash. Emma's temper rises as the room becomes emotionally charged, Killian's shoulders tensing. How _dare_ he try to tell her how she feels – just because she's told him a few tiny pieces doesn't mean he somehow understands what her life has been like, that he _knows_ her. Never mind _he's_ the one who changed the rules without warning, making emotional declarations he _still_ sees no issue with.

He hasn't budged from his spot by the fire, and she's on the couch, but neither of them makes a move toward the other.

"Fine," she spits out, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back. "You tell me, then, since I'm such an open book. You tell me who I am."

His eyes narrow, but he doesn't hesitate. "You're terrified. You came from a life that was scraping by and struggling, but you stood on your own two feet and trusted no one, especially after that last bastard hung you out to dry. You certainly never planned to trust me. You accepted Regina's offer because you wished to cease scraping and struggling, but just as I got far more than I bargained for with you, you've gotten more than you bargained for with me. I'm under your skin, and you can't _stand_ that. So rather than accept what is between us as a _good thing,_ you're turning your back on me before I can turn my back on you, especially when things start to feel a little too real." The words carry a quiet intensity, and his eyes never leave hers.

Emma's pulse quickens, growing faster the longer he speaks, the words she doesn't _want_ to hear coming out of his mouth because _they're all true_. She doesn't want to believe he could know her this well, could read her as easily as he says he can, but the proof is in his words.

"I'm not even my own person anymore," she retorts bitterly rather than confront any of what he's said. "I belong to you and Regina, remember? I have no job but making you look good. Supportive girlfriend. That's my job. I go to yoga. I go to the beach. I exist to make _you_ happy. It's exhausting, and it's not a relationship, and it's definitely not _love_. Love is a weapon and a curse and weakness. This?" She throws up her hands, gestures around the room. "This is a business arrangement."

"I believe we have covered the topic of business arrangements. We agreed no lies, Swan."

"You're right. It's more than a business arrangement, or it was. We were _friends_. And then you got up there, and you _ruined_ it by saying…"

"By saying that I love you," he cuts in, his voice rising as his temper flares. "Bloody hell, Emma. What is it that you want from me? I'll force Regina to tear up the sodding contract if it will please you, if it will make you believe I have long since stopped thinking of you as a means to an end."

"I _want_ things to do back to how they were!" Emma ignores the surge of hope his offer brings, the temptation to give into his promises and words higher than ever. It would be so easy to say yes, to tell him to prove it, call Regina right now, but she still doesn't believe him.

"How things were? You mean when we were happy, and you told yourself we were still pretending but we weren't? I'm not stupid. I've learned the difference between when you're acting as you think you should, and when you're just being yourself. I've been yours as much as you've been mine for some time."

"I belong to myself!"

"For fuck's sake, Emma! Why must it always be a battle with you?" He scrubs his palms over his face, and she doesn't want to care this much about his emotions, wrapped up in her own frustration and fear as she is, but the sight _hurts_ because once again, _she's_ doing this to him.

"I'm exhausted," she finally says, rubbing at her temples with the tips of her fingers. "It's exhausting, avoiding you, trying to stay away from you. I don't want to do it anymore. So I'm going to stop. But I need you to stop making this more than it is."

"I need you to stop making it less than it is." He sighs, finally crossing the room and sitting beside her on the couch. "I will stop saying it, if it makes you uncomfortable, but it won't change how I feel about you." She can feel the weight of his stare, but tucked into the corner of the couch as she is, her arms wrapped protectively around her knees, she refuses to look up. The pain and longing in his voice is bad enough without seeing it reflected back in his eyes. "It won't change how you feel about me, either," he adds softly, watching her as he says it.

"I know," she whispers, her eyes leaving his to stare into the firelight. She can't look at him, but she doesn't fight him as he moves closer. Her eyes slide closed as he gathers her in his arms, trailing his fingers down her back in soothing strokes. She tells herself it isn't relief that relaxes her shoulders, that being wrapped up in him like this isn't like coming home, but she doesn't move, her cheek pressed to his chest.

It's not long before she falls asleep, his heartbeat steady in her ear.

* * *

I am SO sorry about the wait on this one! Insane weekend for both me and the beta = timely fail. But this one was nice and long and I (hope) the ending made it worth the wait!

Many, many thanks to onceuponsomechaos for continuing to make me better and better!


	13. Chapter 13

"Emma?" Killian whispers her name into the quiet, shifting his weight enough to slightly jostle her, but she doesn't respond. He wasn't particularly expecting her to – it's been some time since her weight settled against him, sleep claiming her quickly.

He sighs, leaning back into the couch, careful not to disturb her. This Emma, asleep in his arms, peaceful in spite of the dark shadows under her eyes, this is the woman he wishes she would allow out more often. She has her reasons, and he bloody well knows it, but the mask she insists on putting on for the world hides the warmth he knows lives in her heart.

Her hair tumbles down her back in a snarl of curls, his fingers twisting in the silky strands. He can't stop touching her, needing to feel the hum of connection between them. He told her he loved her – again – told her that her stubbornness and fear won't change how she feels about him.

She said she bloody _knew_.

It isn't quite what he wanted to hear – he wants more than _I know_. But she didn't resist when he gathered her close. He's not sure how long they've been here on the couch, but Emma's actions say much more than she'll ever allow her words to.

When sleep begins to claim him, he forces himself to open his eyes. As much as he wishes to stay here with her, they can't sleep like this on the couch – and there's no reason to with a perfectly good bed just down the hall.

His brows furrow as he debates his next move, glancing down at the woman in his arms. Emma didn't say anything about returning to his bed, but he can't bear the thought of her spending another night away from him. Perhaps it's selfish, but tonight of all nights, he _needs_ her. And by how easily she fell asleep in his arms, he suspects she may need him, too – even if she is too bloody stubborn to say so.

 _She did say she was tired of fighting_ , he reasons, winding his arm around her back. She mumbles something unintelligible in her sleep, nuzzling into his chest as he gathers her up, but she doesn't wake.

He means to put the bloody pillows back, he does. He knows Emma's rules, and he's trying to give her as much room as she requires to be comfortable. But when he sets her down on the bed, she reaches for him, and he just _can't_.

It doesn't matter that she's asleep, or even half-asleep. He can't resist this request of hers. So instead of putting up another wall between them, he takes only the time to strip off his shirt and change out of his jeans before joining her.

He tells himself this is enough, the warmth of her beneath the sheets without their cotton and feather pillow barrier, that he doesn't need to have her in his arms, no matter how badly he craves it. But when she seeks him out, reaching across the bed in her sleep, when she relaxes into his tentative touch, he knows it will never be enough.

* * *

Emma is only half-conscious when she becomes aware of Killian's arm heavy across her waist, his chest pressed to her back. In spite of the blankets pooled at her hips, she isn't the slightest bit cold in the air conditioning – Killian is like a furnace beside her, his bare chest burning through her thin tank top. She doesn't open her eyes right away, her mind still muddled by sleep, his closeness nearly overwhelming.

She doesn't remember going to bed last night.

 _I must have fallen asleep_.

And somehow they ended up...here.

When she blinks her eyes open, the pile of pillows on the floor greets her, the usual armor against him cast aside. She's back in his bed, which shouldn't come as a surprise with him wrapped around her, but it seems like it's been weeks since she's been here – and she didn't give him permission to bring her back. And she wants to be mad – he knows how she feels about this – but she can't seem to summon the emotion.

There are too many other things in the way. Killian's embrace is cozy and tender and _safe_. She _likes_ being back in his bed. Emma can't remember the last time someone gave her the sense of security he offers in the warm cocoon of blankets and his touch.

Except that's not quite true – Killian has been doing it for months.

He was right last night. Ignoring the pull between them won't make the emotions she's trying so hard to avoid go away – it won't make her _want_ any less. If her heart had its way, she would stay right where she is.

Emma has spent the last twenty some-odd years learning that following her heart is a sure fire way to end up more broken than she started. This one morning – _this morning, last night, the last six months_ – won't change that.

The sleepy murmur that escapes his lips as she eases away is almost enough to change her mind. She freezes, but his hand is still dead weight on her back, so she resumes her slide across the bed.

He stumbles into the kitchen an hour later, eyes widening at the array of pancakes, bacon, home fries and eggs she's whipped up. If he has an opinion on why Emma has picked today of all days to make an extravagant breakfast, he keeps it to himself.

She pushes a cup of coffee into his hands, silently begging him with her eyes to just sit down and eat breakfast without bringing up anything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours. And whether it's because he can really read her that well, or the universe is on her side for once, that's exactly what he does.

Emma breathes out a sigh of relief and tries to keep any lingering tension to a minimum. She pretends not to notice the weight of his stare as she moves around the kitchen, the questions he's too polite to ask swimming in his eyes.

It's a quiet day. They don't leave the house, and they barely talk, but it's not the heavy silence of the last few days. This is an easy silence, where he sits beside her skimming industry news in _Variety_ and looks up with a soft smile when she lets her eyes fall on him.

She tells herself she won't miss him when he leaves just after six for a photoshoot downtown. He mentioned it a few weeks ago – something about a rooftop and Regina's promotional machine. He seems reluctant to leave, dawdling in the kitchen with her, but she forces a smile and sends him on his way.

She tells herself her heart doesn't beat a little harder when he brushes a kiss against her hair, when he says not to wait up since the shoot will likely go well into the night.

She tells herself she's not stalling as the hour grows late and she dawdles by the fire on the patio, listening for the sound of his car in the driveway. But eventually, the early morning catches up with her, and she drags herself to bed.

She tells herself she's too tired to stack up the pillows, that he'll do it before he comes to bed, but she floats toward consciousness just before dawn to find his knee wedged between hers. He's curled around her, his breath warm on her shoulder, but all she does is snuggle closer before sleep claims her once again.

She's pretty sure he's pretending to be asleep when she wakes a few hours later, his breaths a little too irregular to be natural. She stiffens as she realizes how close together they are, the entire line of his body pressed to hers, and she tenses her shoulders to put some space between them. It doesn't do much good, the heat of his skin still radiating into hers.

 _Why can't the man wear a shirt to bed for once in his life?_

But the distraction of Killian's skin against hers where her shirt has twisted doesn't change that here they are, tangled up in each other – _again_. For someone who isn't supposed to be giving this man hope or mixed signals, she's doing an awfully crappy job of keeping her distance. And yet, in the space between falling asleep in his arms on the couch and this morning, she doesn't _want_ to keep her distance anymore. _Is it really so bad to give into the comfort of his touch?_ Sleeping like this doesn't need to mean she's prepared to give herself over to him. _It's just sleep. Right?_

Right.

He stays in bed while Emma gets up, swims laps and sets about making scones. There's only so many cupcakes she can bake, and despite his assurances cupcakes make a fine breakfast, she isn't buying it. Besides, she hasn't made scones all that much, and the task gives her something to concentrate on when all her thoughts keep drifting back to the man down the hall.

She definitely does _not_ smile to herself as she drops chocolate chips into the batter. Her eyes are _not_ tugged toward the bedroom by the same strange warmth that sneaks up on her when she thinks of him.

It's not until she dozes while watching tv that night and he suggests going to bed that the choice she has to make occurs to her. The first night he carried her back to his bed and decided against the pillows, not that she fought him on it in the morning. Is it really a surprise he made the same choice the second night, when even she wasn't entirely committed to the idea of resuming their prior arrangement? It's not at though she bothered to put the pillows on the bed herself – and she can't deny her first thought at finding him so close once more was _good_.

Tonight, she's too awake to hide behind any appearance of forgetfulness or unintentional choices. She can stack the damn pillows between them again, or she can accept this shift in their relationship. His point of view is clear – he chooses her. She hasn't fought him on it, hasn't even mentioned it to him. Maybe when she went to bed last night with the pillows on the floor, that was the tipping point, the proverbial pebble in the pond. Tonight...tonight seals it.

When she nods her agreement to go to bed, she sees the hope shining in his eyes. He tries to mask it, looking away and teasing her about her constant yawning, but his jaw is tight and his expression guarded as they walk into the bedroom.

Emma's stomach clenches as she enters the closet, taking her time changing before ducking into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. She realizes with a jolt she's actually _nervous_.

She finds Killian sitting on the edge of the bed clad in only the deliciously thin pajama pants he wears to bed, fidgeting with one of the pillows. She's seen him without a shirt plenty of times before, but tonight, knowing what comes next, the sight warms her cheeks. She has to fight the urge to look away before he catches her, forcing her gaze to his face.

His eyes latch onto hers when he hears her, and his attempt to hide his emotions has either become too much or he's just given up. Every last hope and desire burns bright in his eyes, and she _should_ maintain this line between them, but she _can't_ – a tiny part of her already accepts she wants this, wants him.

She takes a deep breath, crossing the room to stand in front of him. "Ready for bed?" is all she says, gently taking the pillow from his hands.

"Aye. I washed up while you were changing." His eyes follow the pillow as she walks around to her side of the bed, dropping it into the pile with the others as she goes. She doesn't look back after she's done it, forcing herself to keep going. It isn't until she's gotten into bed and turned off the lamp that he says anything.

"Emma, are you…" His voice is filled with hesitation, but the sheets rustle as he moves closer.

"Yes."

He breathes out in a rush of air, but Emma is still holding her breath. Is he going to wrap himself around her again? Is he just going to go to sleep?

Is he going to try to kiss her?

She doesn't want him to. She _definitely_ doesn't want him to kiss her.

If she repeats it to herself long enough, it might even be true.

He's almost too close, his palm sliding over her waist until his arm drapes loosely over her it. She tries to relax, to not tense under his touch as a shiver runs down her spine. "Is this all right?" It's a whisper in the darkness, but there's so much buried in his words – this means something to him, something far more than she should allow, but she doesn't want the alternative.

She doesn't want to look into his eyes and see barely concealed hurt – she doesn't want to push him away.

Not anymore.

"Yes." The word comes out more breathless than she would like, and she winces, because he's got to hear it in her voice. What is she _doing_ encouraging him? But it's only a fleeting thought – relaxing into him is as easy as breathing, and she's asleep before she knows it.

Which is how it comes to be the third morning in a row she's woken up in his arms.

Emma sucks in a deep breath through her nose, letting the air out slowly through barely parted lips. It's different today – their legs are tangled together, her face pressed to his bare chest and his arm snug around her waist. It would take only the barest of movements to brush her lips against his skin, a slight nudge on his shoulder to push him onto his back and lay her body over his. She doubts he would object, the proof of his desire hard against her hip where they're tightly knit together.

For a second, she almost gives into it while he's still asleep. A nagging curiosity has taken hold over her, an almost desperate need to know what it would be like for this to be real – for a kiss between them to be not an explosion of emotion or a contrived act, but soft and _real._

But real is also terrifying, so she doesn't move. It's still early. She allows herself a few more moments tucked up against him, breathing in the scent of his skin and listening to the even beating of his heart.

But that's all she can allow before gently disentangling herself and leaving the room.

She's afraid of what she might do if she stays. She has enough guilt about their new sleeping arrangement. The look in his eyes last night warned of the emotional tsunami waiting in the wings, ready to crash over them both.

She shivers in her tank top in the cool morning air once she's away from the warmth of the bed and steals one of his Henleys from the closet. She shouldn't – she should grab one of her own sweatshirts – but his shirt is softer...and it smells like him.

Padding out to the kitchen, she shoves the too-long sleeves up her forearms, yawning as she goes. Her thoughts drift back to Killian asleep in bed, the warmth….the solidness of him. Her cheeks warm at the memory. There wasn't an inch of their bodies not touching this morning, and she felt _everything_.

"Stop it," she mutters to herself, closing her eyes and struggling to direct her thoughts elsewhere in spite of being half-asleep. She starts coffee, squinting in the early morning light at the tiny digital clock while she stretches. She sort of likes that he has a plain, old-fashioned coffee pot instead of a Keurig or a fancy espresso machine, not that she'll ever admit it when she's teasing him about it.

Killian mentioned blueberry muffins yesterday while devouring the scones, something about one of these mornings he's going to fetch them breakfast from a bakery he likes. And she's not making them for him – she just can't stop thinking about blueberry muffins.

She hasn't decided if she's going to go running this morning or just do some yoga in the backyard, so she watches the drip of the coffee and keeps half-heartedly stretching in the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients for muffins.

She drinks her second cup of coffee on the patio, her legs curled under her as she savors the quiet and the muffins cool on the kitchen counter. It's remarkable how with one of the largest cities in the world sprawled beneath her, the only sounds up here are the faint rustling of the grasses beyond Killian's manicured lawn and the occasional squawk of a passing bird. The breeze is so light this morning that even the palm fronds barely move.

He shuffles out onto the patio with his own cup of coffee while she's going through her yoga poses. She catches her foot in her hand as her arm stretches forward into dancer's pose, a recent favorite. It gives her a sense of grace she's never experienced before.

She lowers her leg slowly, rolling her shoulders as she notices him watching. "Morning," she says softly, gesturing toward the kitchen. "I made muffins."

"Aye, blueberry muffins. I saw." There's a teasing lilt to his words, like he's seen through her intentions, but he doesn't say anything else about the baked goods. Instead, he nods toward her mat in the grass. "You've gotten good at that bit."

"Lots of time to practice." She does her best to keep her tone light, turning back to the mat as she drops to the ground to move into another pose. "You're up earlier than usual."

* * *

"Dave called. We're going riding at the ranch today." It's true but it's not the _real_ reason he's awake. He wakes when she leaves every morning, the bed suddenly empty without her, but he forces himself not to go after her.

She's still too skittish to be chased. And he's not about to do anything to disturb the gift she's given him, finally giving up on the bloody pillow wall. He's not doing anything to jeopardize the scent of Emma's skin on his, the feel of her body entwined with his.

He's a patient man.

"Your trainer is better?"

"Aye. At least, Dave says so." He sips his coffee, noting the ease with which she moves her body. It's a dangerous pastime – watching her bend on that mat only makes him think about all the other ways they might enjoy her flexibility together.

"All right. Will you be back for dinner?"

The question jerks his thoughts away from her body, a pang he doesn't anticipate in his chest at the idea of being away from her all day. Things are changing between them – he saw his shirt balled up on the kitchen counter, right next to the muffins he knows she made for him, can still practically feel her on his skin. He's terrified if he leaves her alone with her thoughts today, he'll come home and discover she's convinced herself to once again keep him at a distance.

"Come with us," he says instead of answering her, blurting out the thought swirling around his mind. "Get out of the city. It's been…it's been a trying week. The ranch is lovely."

"You have to know I've never been on a horse in my life."

He shrugs, trying not to plead because he can see the tiny smile on her lips, the way the thought grows on her, and he doesn't want to scare her off. "So watch us torment ourselves. Come for the drive and read one of your books under a tree."

She stares at him, and he sees her mind working, the hesitance in her eyes as she considers his offer. He worries he's pushed too hard too fast, and practically sighs with relief when a small smile plays across her lips. "Okay," she agrees, leaning back on her heels. "When do we need to leave?"

"Right about now."

"You're not even dressed!" she protests, getting up instantly and hastily rolling up her mat. She has flecks of grass in her hair and stuck to her pants, and he can't help but smile at the sight. "Let's go."

She berates him – playfully – the entire way back to their bedroom, slapping his hand away from the plate of fresh muffins with a glare as they pass. "You can have one in the car," she says, pushing him toward the shower.

He shuts the bathroom door, leaning back against the wood as he closes his eyes, taking a few precious seconds to savor the morning.

Emma in his arms, her breath hot on his chest. Emma stealing his clothes with a closet full of her own within easy reach. Those bloody blueberry muffins he mentioned in passing yesterday now waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Emma's eyes dancing with mischief and affection as she teased him.

Perhaps winning her heart isn't quite as much of a longshot as he'd once feared.

His smile broadens as he fiddles with the temperature of the water, glancing back at the door like he can somehow see her through it. It's been a good morning – he's hoping for an even better afternoon.

* * *

Emma steps out of Killian's car with a container of muffins in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, her bag slung over her shoulder. The heat slams into her like an open oven, her jeans instantly sticking to her thighs. She wore them on the odd chance she finds herself on a horse, but maybe shorts would have been a better idea. What business does she have getting on a horse, anyway?

The look in Killian's eyes when she agreed to try it comes flooding back, and suddenly the heat doesn't seem so bad.

David is waiting for them, a perturbed look on his face, but he brightens considerably when he sees Emma. "So nice of you to join me, Jones. Though I see you've brought along more pleasant company today."

"Nice to see you again, David." Emma rolls her eyes as the two of them begin bickering, holding out the food. "I brought muffins."

"Killian didn't eat them all in the car?"

"Not for lack of effort," Emma says wryly as the two men each grab a muffin, crumbs everywhere in their eagerness to consume the confection. "So where's the trainer?"

David points toward the barn, swallowing his mouthful of muffin. "She's probably getting the horses saddled. I told her I would wait out here for Killian."

"Your trainer is a woman?" Emma asks with an arched eyebrow at Killian. The spark of jealousy is a foreign sensation, but what's stranger is that she recognizes it for what it is almost immediately. The strangest thing is she doesn't want to take it back. As far as the world is concerned, Killian belongs to _her_ – she has every right to be a little jealous.

The look he gives her in response is oddly satisfied, as though he can read her thoughts and he's _pleased_. "Aye, Swan. She's a woman. Mostly, she enjoys other women, so you needn't worry."

"I wasn't…"

He wraps his arm around her, bends low and whispers into her ear, "Aye, lass, you were." But he doesn't sound annoyed or angry – he sounds downright happy. He kisses her cheek, which Emma chalks up to David's presence and tries not to read too much into it.

"You boys have fun. I've got my book." She looks up at Killian, struggling between playing her part and just being herself – not that she's entirely sure there's much of a line left between the two anymore. "Come find me for lunch?"

"Of course." He bends, brushes another kiss against her cheek and grabs two more muffins with one hand before he starts toward the barn with David, leaving her with the container.

Emma can't help the small sigh that escapes as she watches him walk away. His jeans and snug T-shirt leave little to the imagination after how they woke this morning, the fit of his body against hers. She's been craving his touch since she slid out of bed.

 _You want him. Admit it_.

Heat rises in her cheeks that has nothing to do with the day as she turns away from him, pulling out her book. Maybe she shouldn't have come – being here feels an awful lot like playing with fire.

Or maybe she's in the mood to get burned.

* * *

"So you haven't told her I know about you two." They're well out of earshot, nearly in the barn when David says it, his voice a strange mix of amusement and accusation.

"Know what? I'm quite certain I've told you nothing of our relationship she wouldn't already be aware of." Killian grins at his friend with false innocence, glancing over his shoulder to watch Emma settle herself in the shade with her book, the sun bright on her hair.

"Sure you're not using it as an excuse to keep up the act?" This time, it _is_ an accusation.

"There are plenty of other people around, Dave." Killian levels him with a look of contempt, gesturing to the few people milling about. "It's not all about you."

"You're an ass. Let's go get the horses." David gives him a shove into the barn, but he's laughing as they go.

They spend the morning practicing jumps in an outdoor ring. Emma isn't far, reading under the tree, but Killian notices as the morning goes on, she seems to be paying far less attention to her book than the two of them.

By mid-morning, she's given up all pretense of reading and moved to sit on the rail circling the ring, watching intently as he and David take turns racing the horses at one obstacle or another, their trainer alternating between encouragement and barked orders. Killian is hot and sweaty and covered in the sandy dirt the horses have kicked up, but he couldn't be happier. It's good to be moving, and that's part of it – he's gotten _good_ at this – but having Emma watch with an awed pride is the icing on the cake.

He's looking forward to their afternoon. After lunch, they plan to go out into one of the fields to practice the high-speed moves, the gallops and sudden turns, all to give it the appearance of effortlessness when they finally get to shooting.

 _If_ they get to shooting, he reminds himself with a mental grimace. The role isn't his yet, no matter how many promising meetings Regina claims to have had.

 _Does it really even matter anymore? It's brought you Emma, hasn't it?_

His eyes drift back toward the rail, catching Emma's eye. She grins in response, a happy, _real_ grin he can't help but answer.

* * *

Emma knows they're here for a purpose – this movie is important to Killian. But she also thinks they may secretly just like it – from what she's seen this morning, neither David nor Killian particularly _need_ the practice.

But it's Killian she can't take her eyes off.

"Care to join us?" Killian offers as he swings up into the saddle after a simple lunch in the shade, holding his hand out to her. "You can ride with me out there and then watch. Bring your book if we're not entertainment enough."

She stares up at him, eyeing him with an unexpected rush of desire. His eyes are alive today, bright and happy, and entirely focused on _her._ The brief break hasn't done much to improve the sweat-soaked shirt or wind-blown hair, and he was rushed this morning so his stubbled beard is a touch more wild than usual. He's much less Hollywood actor today, something primal in his eyes, and she's drawn to it.

But Emma regards the massive horse with a wary eye, still hesitating. "I don't know…"

"Try something new, darling. It's called trust." The words are gentle, his tongue curling around _darling_ like a caress. Her eyes shift from the horse to his wide blue eyes filled with hope, and it's no longer a matter of making a decision. She simply takes the offered hand, shoves her foot in the stirrup, and lets him haul her up in front of him.

The sudden closeness is a shock to her system. They're reaching the hottest part of the day, and Killian's skin is damp with sweat. Her thin tank top isn't in much better shape, her jeans plastered to her thighs. The saddle doesn't afford them much room, either, the heat of his body pressed to hers.

He chuckles low in his throat as she fidgets, his free arm coming around her waist. "It's all right, love," he says gently, pulling her against his chest. "Just take a deep breath. He'll sense if you're upset, and then he'll get upset." Killian leans past her, gently stroking the horse's neck as he adjusts Emma's position. It presses his chest to her back all the more snugly, the scent of him – sweat and musk and _Killian_ – washing over her.

In the end, their thighs are tight against each other, his arms on either side as he holds the reins with one hand and anchors her against him with the other.

As the horse begins to walk, he murmurs soft instructions in her ear, his breath on her skin sending a shiver down her spine. "Don't squeeze with your thighs too tightly. I've got you, love. Just relax." He sways with the horse's movements, easy and loose, and she closes her eyes and leans back into him, trying to match his movements.

It's disconcerting at first, being this high up with a powerful, unpredictable animal beneath her, but Killian's steadiness puts her at ease. She forgets the heat of the day, instead letting her body rest against his, move with his. The ride to the open fields goes by faster than she would like.

It's too easy to think of how their bodies found this natural rhythm together – and what other rhythms they could learn just as effortlessly.

His breath falters every now and then, the arm on her hips drawing her closer. He seems to catch himself, sit up a little straighter, breathe a little more evenly, but then he's right there again, his nose skimming the shell of her ear until she shivers in spite of the heat.

She should put a stop to it.

She doesn't.

David shoots them an odd look when they finally reach the field and Emma slides down from the saddle. Riding at a walk out here with Killian was enough – she has no desire to go tearing across the field full tilt as they're about to.

But it _is_ something to watch.

Emma is left to gape and gawk to her heart's content. It's amazing to witness, having not truly known Killian was good with horses. He rides how he walks – with grace and a natural ability to be one with the animal. The horse wheels about this way and that, and she has no idea how he controls the beast so effortlessly, but he moves like he was born to this.

She smiles at the sheer joy of it, her heart full. Killian's laughter and whoops carry across the field, and she doesn't have to see his face to know the happiness in his eyes.

By the time the two men come back for her, horses and riders alike are panting with exertion, but Killian and David are grinning wildly as they exchange high fives. "You sure you don't want to have a go, Swan?" Killian asks as he gets down. He's more sweat-soaked than ever, dirt clinging to his jeans and his face, and it shouldn't be attractive that he's such a mess, but all she can think about is what his lips must taste like, salty and soft.

"No, I'm good." Her voice isn't as steady as she'd like it to be, and _damn him_ , he notices. His response is a single raised brow, but she knows that brow, and this has _got_ to stop.

David joins them, and Emma swallows thickly, forcing a smile back on her face and ignoring the simmering heat low in her belly. They walk the horses to a small stream on the other side of the rise, lingering in the hot sun and long grasses.

All she can think about is getting back on the horse with Killian, her body tight against his, rocking together with the rhythm of the horse's steps. She's driving herself crazy with it, barely listening to a word either of them has said while staring up at the sky and trying desperately to think about something else before her face gives her away.

The ride back to the barn is torture of the sweetest kind. She shifts back against him _almost_ unconsciously, and he sucks in his breath, his fingers tightening on her hip as he growls in her ear, "Careful, Swan."

There's a note of warning in the words, but she's only dimly aware of it. She's pushing him, and she shouldn't. It's a sinful game they're playing with each other today, and he's just as guilty as she is, but at some point, one of them has to stop before it goes too far.

It won't be him.

She's increasingly certain it won't be her, either.

Killian swings off the saddle behind her, and turns back to help her down once they reach the barn. His hands on her waist are strong and steady, but his grip causes her shirt to ride up, and his thumb grazes the bared skin longer than it should – not that she minds. Her legs are weak and shaky, and she can't tell if it's from the newness of riding a horse or from _him_. "Emma…" His voice is a low murmur, her back to the horse effectively trapping her where she is as his breath warms her cheek. "I…"

"Hey, do you know where the brushes went? They were right…" David's voice trails off as he comes into view, a smirk stretching over his lips. "Never mind. I'll just go check the tack room."

Emma flushes deeply, though there's no reason for it. As far as David knows, they're a couple. Why shouldn't they be pressed together as they are? But she knows and that's enough to make her slip out of Killian's grasp.

"Emma…" He calls her name again, but before he can say anything else, David returns with the brushes. He tosses one to Killian with another smirk before disappearing to look after his horse.

"Do you want to help?" Killian asks, holding the brush out to her. His voice is all tightly-laced control, and it makes her temperature tick up a notch. She takes the brush hesitantly, running her fingers over the stiff bristles while he works to remove the saddle.

"I've never…"

"It's not difficult." There's a bit of amusement in his gaze, but she's not watching his eyes when he lifts the saddle and moves to set it down, the muscles in his arms and back flexing with the effort. He catches her stare, and she expects him to say something, some innuendo-laced comment or another, but he simply waits.

She nods then, tentatively holding the brush up to the horse and stroking it over the massive body. "You don't have to be quite so gentle," Killian says from behind her, his body close as his hand covers hers, pressing down slightly harder. It makes her breath catch, his chest once again against her back, fully invading her space. "They like it, a lot of the time. I imagine it's a bit like having someone run their fingers through your hair."

"I wouldn't know." The words come out without her meaning them to, and it's not entirely true, because Killian's done it a few times, when she's been all but asleep.

It's the only time she's allowed it.

"We'll have to change that." His voice is low again, thick with the growing tension between them, his arms around her as they continue to brush down the horse.

"Killian, I…"

"Hey, you guys about done?" David's interruption brings on a rush of guilt all over again, and she immediately puts some space between them. It's probably better he walked in when he did, stopping her from saying the words on the tip if her tongue, the admission that was ready to spring free.

She wants him. There's no more fighting it.

"Yeah. I'm just going to go find a bathroom before we head back to the city. Long drive and all." Emma smiles, but she knows it's that forced, too-bright smile she hates – the one Killian will see through in an instant. But she hurries out of the barn, anyway. She needs to put more than a few feet between them before the long car ride, before they go back to his house where they share a bed – where there is no David to interrupt them.

* * *

Killian watches her go, his blood running rampant in his veins. His thoughts are already on their evening alone in the house. After a day like this, a day where he's been on the verge of exploding more times than one, maybe she's finally ready to give into the heat between them. There's something different about her today, something deliberate and far from innocent about how she's molded her body to his as the day has worn on.

He's so deep in his thoughts he doesn't notice David until his hand claps him on the shoulder, startling him. Killian scowls at his friend, shaking him off as he turns back to finish with his horse before they leave. Whatever he's about to say, Killian isn't in the mood for another of David's lectures.

"I don't know who you two think you're kidding," David says, leaning against the wall as he watches Killian carefully. His tone very clearly conveys the answer – _no one._

"You know I haven't any idea what you're talking about when you speak in riddles." Killian knows _exactly_ what David means – it's all he's been able to think about today, especially sharing the saddle with Emma. She did much more than play her part today, but daring to hope has gotten him in trouble before.

David rolls his eyes. "You and Emma. All day long, you've been…let's put it this way. If I saw Mary Margaret act with another man like Emma was with you today, I'd want him dead."

"She isn't aware you know."

"That's a bullshit excuse and you know it."

Killian sighs, leading the horse to his stall before turning to David, wiping his hands on his dusty jeans. "She's not ready," he says simply, his eyes on the barn's open doors, the late afternoon sun bathing the property in a soft light.

"Looked pretty ready to me." David claps him on the shoulder once more before heading for his car. "Tell Emma goodnight for me. I'm going to hit the road."

Killian nods, slowly following his friend out of the barn and searching for Emma, his thoughts alive with the possibility of the impossible.

* * *

 **So I keep saying each chapter is my favorite, but this one, this one really turned into something I love. Hopefully you loved it too. Thank you to oncepromised for telling me this whole excursion wasn't lame. HUGE thank you to onceuponsomechaos for the MANY hours spent working on this beast of a chapter and demanding shoving nudging me into making it the piece it is now. May the shower epiphanies live on, my friend.**


	14. Chapter 14

She expects a tense ride back to Killian's house considering how things have been between them all day, butterflies in her stomach as she settles into her seat and pushes her sunglasses into place.

But he's not tense at all – he's smiling, a soft, easy smile. His hand settles on her thigh before they're even out of the driveway, and Emma has to bite down – hard – on her lip to keep from making a sound. She sneaks a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, wondering just what he thinks he's starting with such a long drive ahead of them, but he doesn't say anything. He just sings along quietly with the radio, some country station she's barely aware of, distracted by his touch.

He doesn't move his hand. Occasionally he brushes his thumb almost absently across the tight denim and it's all she can do not to suck in her breath, not to lean into his touch.

Emma expected to get in the car and have the game continue. When he put his hand on her thigh, she expected _more_ – not for him to just smile and sing along with the radio.

 _Why is he being like this, all soft and content?_

 _What the hell do you think you were doing today? You shouldn't have encouraged him._

David was there with them, but she didn't have to be quite as affectionate – if that's what you would call it – as she was to sell their relationship. And yet she was more than willing to press herself against Killian, to let her fingers tangle with his, to brush a kiss to his cheek, to lean back against him in that saddle.

Never mind the rush of jealousy that flooded her veins for the split second she envisioned their trainer as a beautiful woman watching _her_ Killian with desire.

That moment standing outside the car was the first time she let herself think of him as _hers_ – even though she had no right to. But that's not quite true either. They've each laid claim to the other, not in words, but in other more subtle ways. She stopped putting pillows between them in the bed. He told her he wouldn't apologize for his feelings for her, and god, that's _terrifying_.

 _You were never supposed to let him have this kind of power over you. You need to take about ten steps back._

She silently repeats the words to herself like a mantra. She _isn't_ acutely aware of his hand on her leg. She stops herself from licking her lips at the memory of being in the saddle with him, the way his arms surrounded her in the barn. If David hadn't walked in at that moment, she doesn't know what would have happened.

Because she _shouldn't_.

But a part of her still wants to.

 _You want him. He wants you. This shouldn't be complicated._

 _But it is complicated. It's not just a one night thing. He's in love with you._

 _I can't do this. It means too much to him._

Nevermind what it means to her.

Her thoughts distract her momentarily, but the closer they get to his house, the weight of his hand on her thigh becomes maddening. Would it be so bad, really, to give into this thing between them?

But if she does, what happens in six months? The relationship has an expiration date. She's already in deep enough with him, already knows it's going to hurt like hell to walk away. She does this, and then what? What _happens_ in six months?

 _I'll force Regina to tear up the sodding contract if it will please you, if it will make you believe I have long since stopped thinking of you as a means to an end._

His thumb brushes against the inside of her thigh again, yanking her out of her worries. She's spent an entire day sweating in these jeans, and in spite of the coolness of the air-conditioned car, the denim still clings to her. It's too easy to let her mind wander as the miles pass, to think of more pleasant things than all the ways in which this is a bad idea – about peeling off her jeans – to think of _him_ peeling off her jeans.

It's late when they get to the house, the setting sun painting the sky above them and lengthening the shadows. She thinks it will come then, the innuendo-laced comments and seductive smirk that will put them back in familiar territory, but he just grins that same easy grin at her as he turns the key in the lock. "Fancy a swim? It's still quite warm out." It's an innocent question, but warning bells start ringing all over again in her head.

The water would undoubtedly feel heavenly, but she should turn him down, go take a _really_ cold shower – forget today happened. Find some self control. Let things go back to how they were.

But his face falls at her hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. She should walk away, damn his happiness – but she can't. She can't bear to ruin it now.

If she goes down with the ship, so be it.

"Sure, I'll just go change." Maybe she can find a modicum of self-control in the time it takes to fish out a bathing suit. Maybe it can just be an evening swim like they've done so many times before.

"Why bother?" The smolder returns to his eyes almost instantly, and it's a relief. This is a known quantity. He raises an eyebrow at her, holding her gaze prisoner before grabbing the hem of his shirt. The hint of a smile plays at the edge of his lips, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip before he tugs the shirt over his head. "Surely whatever you've got on beneath that will do. It's our house, love." The words carry heat, a dare and an invitation all wrapped up in that low voice of his that makes her shiver. He doesn't wait for her answer, dropping the shirt to the floor before turning for the pool.

She wants to follow after him, to trace the curve of his shoulder with her tongue, but there was more in the words than a blatant invitation. _Our_ house, he said, and it freezes her in place, her eyes on the empty doorway he's disappeared through, her thoughts a million miles away. _Our_ house. _Our_ pool. _Our_ bed.

He's made her a part of his life, and he's done it for real. She's the one holding back – she's the one who's still pretending, even after everything that's happened between them.

 _What happened to not doing this? You're going to hurt him._

 _He's going to hurt you._

"Do you intend to leave me out here by my lonesome?" His voice carries through the house, and she trails after it, a moth drawn to the flame. She needs an excuse to get out of this – she can't get into that pool with him, because if she does, it's game over. She shouldn't have behaved the way she did today, shouldn't have encouraged him no matter how damn badly she enjoyed their game.

It's not a simple diversion to him – not that it is to her, either. It's complicated and messy and everything she's been trying to avoid, because it isn't just the sight of his tanned skin or the fit of his jeans that sends her heart racing. It's all of him, the gentle affection and the searing heat – and that's far more dangerous.

She reaches the patio just in time to see him unbuckle his belt, pushing the jeans off his hips to reveal a snug set of boxer-briefs that leave very little to the imagination. Her excuses die on her lips, her eyes freely roaming every exposed inch of him. She feels like she knows his body already, how it curls around her first thing in the morning, how it sets her blood on fire with a simple shift of his hips. But seeing him in the low light from the pool is an entirely separate matter.

"Surely you don't plan to swim in your jeans, love?" He's got that damn eyebrow raised at her again, and that smirk that seems just a little smug as he catches her gaze trailing over him. The light of the day is fading, but his eyes are bright as he kicks his jeans the rest of the way off. It's dangerous, but it's what she's been expecting since she slid out of the saddle hours ago. This she can handle.

Maybe it's because it has been a long, unsatisfying day of teasing – her pushing, him pulling. Maybe it's because she knows she will wake up tomorrow wrapped in his arms no matter what she says or does tonight.

Or maybe it's just because she doesn't want to be afraid anymore.

Her eyes lock on his, full of challenge as she reaches for the hem of her shirt and slowly drags it up her torso. Their eye contact breaks for the second it takes her to get the fabric over her head, but then it's back. She holds his molten stare, taking her time unbuttoning her jeans and peeling them off her thighs. She rationalizes she's being careful not to give him more of a show than she intends with the sticky denim and the delicate fabric of her underwear, but the way he's watching her isn't an incentive to hurry the process along. So once she kicks the jeans away, she doesn't move toward the pool just yet. Instead she tugs her hair out of its braid, letting the soft waves fall down her back as she combs through it with her fingers.

 _Then_ she starts toward the pool.

She gets the satisfaction of seeing him flustered as she passes, and with her back to him, she allows herself a grin of victory. It shouldn't be a matter of winning or losing, not for either of them – but she's never managed to rob the man of words before.

She glances back at him from under her lashes as she saunters toward the steps, the unquenchable thirst in his eyes an encouragement she doesn't need but savors all the same. The water glides over her skin with a delicious coolness as she descends the stairs, turning back to him once she reaches the bottom. "Are you coming in?" she asks, taking a backward step toward deeper water. "It feels amazing."

"You're playing with fire, Swan." The words are an echo of his low growl in the saddle, the warning unmistakable even as the memory sweeps through her with a rush of desire. He follows each step she takes back into the deep end, his eyes as intent on her as a panther's.

"We're surrounded by water." Emma swallows thickly, unable to take her eyes off him. She doesn't know if it's a result of their day together, or if it's her little stunt with her clothes, but his eyes blaze with a hunger that stuns her with its intensity. _Shit_. The way he's looking at her, her body aches for his touch, and she clenches her fists beneath the water to keep from reaching for him.

"Careful, love. Even I have my limits."

She stops moving, the water lapping at her shoulders. He stops, too, holding her stare for another long moment before he drops under the water, popping back up inches from her with water clinging to his eyelashes even after he tries to brush it free. The gleam in his eyes is almost predatory, but he doesn't touch her, doesn't make a move – he just waits while she burns under his gaze.

 _I intend to prove you wrong_.

The memory pops into her mind unbidden, his serious expression and the flicker of the firelight on his face. She was so certain that night, so certain that even entertaining a chance of anything real with him was a mistake, and now…now she isn't sure of anything.

 _It won't change how you feel about me, either._

 _I know._

"Today was fun." She blurts out the first thing she can to break the tension, her eyes darting down to where her hands float on the water's surface, watching the ripples before turning back to him. It's a struggle not to let her eyes roam over his exposed skin again, her fingers itching to touch every bit of him. "Thank you for inviting me."

"Would you like to come with us again?" His expression shifts, softening, but the desire is still there, simmering away in the depths of his gaze.

"Are you going to make me ride a horse again?"

It's an innocent question, but his eyes darken once more as his stare drops to her lips. "Was it so bad, sharing the saddle with me?"

"No." It comes out as practically a whisper, because he's so close, and he's going to kiss her, she _knows_ he's going to kiss her, because this entire day has been leading up to this. Yet he still doesn't make a move. He watches her, the wanting plain on his face, but he doesn't _do_ anything about it.

 _I won't do it again without your permission._

Her eyes drop to his mouth, the way the tip of his tongue slides over his bottom lip. She shouldn't do this – she does and things change. A lot. She's not ready for any of that, for him to look at her with all that endless emotion.

But she's drawn to him with a pull stronger than reason. All she can think about is his lips on hers, a _real_ kiss. He's waiting for her – always waiting for her – so she leans into him, wrapping her wet arms around his shoulders and pressing her lips to his before she can change her mind. He tastes like salt and chlorine, and his response to her kiss is instantaneous. His arms surround her, anchoring her body against his as the kiss deepens, and Emma doesn't want it to ever end. The inferno only rages hotter as his palms slide to the back of her thighs below the water, lifting until her legs slide around his hips. The water contrasts fiercely with the heat of her body against him, Killian's skin slick under her touch.

The next kiss swallows her gasp, a low sound of pleasure in the back of her throat as her hips tilt into his, the thin fabric separating them doing nothing to hide every inch of his body tight against hers. She feels the resulting growl in his chest more than she hears it, his fingers tightening their grip, his lips devouring hers.

The frenzy threatens to annihilate her. This kiss is like the others, tinged with a desperate, all-consuming need as she clenches her thighs tighter around him. But the frantic need doesn't last, giving way to a sensual tenderness she doesn't expect. His lips leave hers, trailing over her jaw as the hand pressing her hips so tightly to him eases back, settles instead on the small of her back. His other hand skims along the outside of her thigh, his touch suddenly light. He trails his fingers up her ribs, tracing the line of her bra as she arches against him, wanting so much more than the light caress.

Her silent plea goes unanswered, the slow torture of his touch continuing with the barest brush of his knuckles along her spine until his palm settles on the small of her back. The other hand follows the path taken by his lips, over her shoulder, across her collarbones to the swell of her breasts – but never quite where she wants him.

She's not sure how long it goes on, his lips on her skin, a reverent sort of worship of her body she doesn't quite understand. The fire doesn't go out – his desire is still blatant between her thighs – but he's gentler, the kisses slower even when she pushes against him, begging for the frenzy to return.

She can't think when he kisses her like he wants to possess her, when he holds nothing back and fills her every thought with the slide of his skin, the rasp of his stubble against her cheeks, the velvet of his tongue on hers. But when he's like this, when each kiss is a silent promise she never asked him to make, there's way too much damn thinking.

This isn't smirking and daring, pushing and pulling – this isn't devilish grins and eyes dancing with mischief. This is something else entirely, something he's already named that she doesn't want to hear.

"Emma…" He breathes out her name, but it's not filled with heat so much as tenderness. She should stop – this isn't at all what she had in mind – but now that she's had a taste of him, she craves more.

Digging her nails into his shoulders, she uses the leverage to bring herself closer, desperate to reclaim the searing heat. For a moment, she gets her wish. They've ended up at the edge of the pool, her back to the smooth concrete lip, his chest tight against hers. He leans his hips into hers, and she swallows the low groan from his lips with another scorching kiss. Time ceases to exist in the inferno of his touch – it could be seconds or minutes before he pulls back. They're both panting, and still, she wants so much _more_.

His eyes catch hers, intense but thoughtful. He leans back in, and she expects him to continue his assault, to have her on one of the lawn chairs in no time, but his palms slide along her jaw, fingers reaching into her hair as he kisses her gently. "Emma, I…"

The words are thick, and when she looks at him, it isn't just lust staring back at her. She should have known better – he doesn't just _want_ her body, here in this pool. He wants so much more than she's willing to give.

She _wants_ but she's still terrified. The feelings the kiss has exposed – his, hers – they have the power to destroy her. She's known it all day, ignored it – perhaps foolishly – when she got into the pool with him. But the way he whispers her name, the way his every touch has turned to a gentle caress, has only reinforced the stakes.

For both of them.

"I can't…"

"I understand. I apologize, I shouldn't have..." He releases his grip on her immediately, and she sees the hurt in his eyes before the window into his emotions slams shut, his expression carefully blank as she realizes her mistake.

"No! Not I _can't_ …I only meant…" She reaches for him again, pressing an urgent kiss to his lips, her fingers dragging through the short hair at the nape of his neck as his hands settle on either side of her on the pool's edge, the kiss drawing a low noise from his throat that may be pleasure or pain.

"I can't give you more than _this_ right now," she whispers as she breaks the kiss, her palm on his cheek as her thumb brushes over his darkened lips. She draws a shaky breath, struggling to calm her racing heart. Now that it's happened, there's no denying how badly she wants him – and maybe she should draw a firm line in the sand about twenty paces back from where they are, but she _can't_. "I...we do this and... I… you still terrify me."

It's not much of an explanation, but it's the best she can do. She keeps her hands on him, praying he understands. Fire, she can handle that – there's been fire between them since the first time they were in this pool together. But when he slows down, when he touches her like she's precious, every insecurity and doubt comes rushing back. She could handle their sinful game at the ranch, but _this_ , Emma swore never to do _this_ again.

Killian might be the man to change that. She just needs to be _sure_ , because she's already certain of one thing – there will be no coming back from this.

His lips curl into a gentle smile, far from the exasperation she expects. "We have all the time in the world, love. I understand you have not…" He frowns, a shadow of anger in his eyes, but it leaves nearly as quickly as it came as he traces the line of her cheek with his finger. "You have not been treated as you deserved. But please don't use this as an excuse to sleep in the bloody guest room. Stay in our bed. With me." His thumb brushes against her hip below the water, a reassuring touch even as he cups her jaw with his other hand, eyes wide with hope.

"Is that such a good idea?"

He chuckles, shaking his head and nuzzling his lips against her neck. "I am capable of being a gentleman, darling. And patient. Never worry whether I have expectations you need to fulfill. Kissing you..." He trails off, moving closer slowly, giving her time to push him away before his lips touch hers in the softest of kisses. "I will never tire of kissing you." He leans back, a teasing glint taking up residence in his eye. "But please leave off with the bloody pillows, if you don't mind. I like waking up with you in my arms. "

"I…like that part, too." She doesn't know why she's feeling so shy all of a sudden. They're still pressed together in only their soaked underwear, and it's not as though the thin fabric covering her leaves much to the imagination. They've shared a bed for months, woken tangled together the last three mornings. But this day – this night – it's shifting things between them to a point where she's not going to be able to hold anything of herself back from him, no matter how hard she clings to it now.

She's afraid she's not going to _want_ to – and there's so much about her that may send him running far and fast.

He kisses her once more, a sweet kiss, before backing away, his palm reluctant to leave her thigh as she lowers her legs. "Perhaps we should attend to other appetites instead. Shall we see to dinner?" She nods, grateful for the reprieve from the amped up tension between them and heads for the stairs.

 _How the hell are we...what have I done?_

She shoves the thought away, reaching for a towel to wrap herself in. Whatever lines she's crossed, there's no going back now.

* * *

Killian remains in the pool, struggling to calm his breathing and his body. He needs a few more moments in the cool water before facing her in sodden undergarments that hide nothing. He might be in love with her, but he's spent months wanting her – not that anything in these months can compare to a _wanting_ Emma Swan in his arms. In this moment, his body is louder than his heart.

Guilt nags at him as she reaches for a towel, drops of water trickling over her curves. Did he not _just_ tell David she wasn't ready for this? What possessed him to suggest they get into the pool in their undergarments?

He shouldn't have challenged her – he was too wrapped up in their cat and mouse game. He hadn't actually thought Emma would agree. Perhaps he should have backed off then, sent her inside to don a bathing suit, but when she pulled off her top, her eyes shooting sparks, he found himself helpless in her hands.

That kiss...the kiss was everything he's been wishing for. Emma's legs around his hips, the heat of her body welcoming his. He let himself get carried away, let himself kiss her like he's been wanting to for months. Aye, he reined it in eventually, managed to control his desires to treat her properly, to take his time, but the look in her eyes when she said _I can't_ is all the proof he needs he should have kept a tighter leash on himself.

The aftermath should be awkward, but it's not. He trails behind her on the way to the bedroom, swallowing thickly at the sight of her lean legs. He could get used to this – early evening swims in the pool followed by preparing dinner together – perhaps one day soon, nights that end with them tumbling into bed. He doesn't want one without the others, not with Emma – but convincing her of his intention to remain at her side as long as she'll have him will take some doing.

If he's learned anything about Emma these months, it's that her heart is tender and generous – and she guards it fiercely. She's freer with her desires, because those don't _mean_ quite so much. He could practically feel the panic in her kisses when he slowed things down, her urgency to lose herself in the moment.

Emma's shoulders shake with cold as they walk into the bedroom, and she tugs her towel tighter around her body. He wants to go to her, to wrap her in his arms and pull her beneath the warm water with him, but now isn't the time for that.

"I'll just grab my things and go shower in one of the guest bathrooms. It's bloody freezing in here." The offer to put some distance between them is as much for her benefit as his own. Instinctively, he knows she needs space to process what has occurred between them.

And he needs another bloody minute.

"Killian, you don't have to…I can go in…"

"Wouldn't be very gentlemanly, would it?" he cuts in, unable to resist the kiss he presses to her cheek as he passes. It's a small victory that she doesn't tense when he does it.

When he reemerges from the bathroom, shampoo in hand, Emma is staring off at the wall with an unreadable expression on her face. His presence seems to snap her out of it, and she flashes a grin at him before he leaves.

Once the door closes behind him, he lets out a breath he hadn't meant to hold. It's been five minutes since they got out of the pool, and still, he can practically feel her skin against his. He turns the tap as cold as he can stand it, because Emma's kiss is a step in the right direction – finally – but he wants so much more than she's ready to give.

The second the water touches his skin, the air leaves his lungs with a gasp. It accomplishes his goal – he can't think of anything but how bloody cold the water is at first. But it's no match for the day they've had – the fire burning in his veins won't be extinguished by anything except _her_. He shivers, this time not from the temperature, but from the very thought of her delicate fingers curling around his shoulders in the pool, what it might feel like if she curled those fingers elsewhere.

It's not quite a decision he makes so much as a desperate need that takes over. He jerks the water temperature away from frigid, giving into the heat burning away in his belly as he slides his hand down. The water swallows his gasp, his eyes squeezing shut as he lets his imagination take over. It's not the first time he's resorted to this sort of relief – really, he doesn't know why he even bothered with the cold water, a part of him knowing this is where he would end up.

He's never given himself permission to fully give over to the fantasy until tonight, always painfully aware of Emma's distance. The friction of Emma's body against his, that's easy enough to recreate - he _had_ that mere minutes ago. But today his thoughts wander down the hall, back into their bedroom – to Emma.

No longer in one of the guest showers alone, but _with_ her, emerald eyes filled with mischief and lust as he reaches for her. He takes his time, kissing down her neck and luxuriating in the low noises his attentions bring from her lips. The temperature of the water should keep her warm, but there are goosebumps beneath his fingertips as he moves lower, his name a throaty moan as he reaches between her thighs, bringing his lips back to hers as he teases her.

Emma's legs seem to shake as she reaches to turn off the water, the word _bed_ a breathless plea he's only too happy to oblige. Her legs wrap around his waist as he lifts her, slick heat meeting his arousal in a torturous tease. A mere tilt of his hips would bury him inside her, but he's not through with her yet.

He lays her down on the bed, resumes his exploration of her body, catalogues every sigh and moan for future reference. The image of Emma, eyes closed and back arched, fingers fisted in the sheets, it's almost enough for him to give in, but he waits, pushing her further and further until she comes undone under his tongue.

Nearly ready to burst himself, he presses gentle kisses along her stomach as he listens to her pants with a satisfied smirk, his tongue tasting the salt of her sweat. Only then does he press forward, her body welcoming his eagerly as he curses with the sheer pleasure of it.

His breath comes in staccato pants as the force of his release crashes through him, the tile cold beneath his overheated skin. "Bloody hell," he mumbles to himself as he steps back under the spray, one hand resting on the wall to keep himself steady. If a mere fantasy of Emma can have this effect on him, what will it be like when he finally does have her in their bed?

No, no he can't imagine that. Not now. Or he'll never leave this shower.

By the time he emerges, she's in the kitchen. She's stolen one of his shirts again, the sleeves shoved up to her elbows. He stands in the doorway for a minute, watching from the side as she stares into the open refrigerator. It's not the first time Emma has chosen to garb herself in his clothes in place of her own, but there's something different about the sight of her today, something that makes him want to sigh with happiness.

Her damp hair hangs down her back, she hasn't put on a stitch of makeup, and she's wearing her indecisive face, features scrunched up, but she takes his breath away all the same.

No matter how much time she needs, this day has made one thing clear – he belongs to Emma. Body, heart, and soul, all of it is hers whether she's willing to accept that yet or not.

* * *

He comes up behind her, pulls her back to his chest and presses a kiss to her neck. He hasn't put on a shirt – the man picks her weakest moments to not bother with a damn shirt – but he holds her close anyway as he ducks to speak into her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin. "What're you in the mood for, love?" It's an innuendo-laced comment by the way he lets his fingers drag along her hips, but when she turns in his arms, he's all innocence. "For dinner, Emma. Remove your thoughts from the gutter."

It makes her laugh, and she lets the door close behind her. "I really just want Chinese food," she admits, shrugging. "And there's not Chinese food in the fridge, so no matter how long I look in it, there's nothing in there I want."

He grins, reaching for his phone on the counter. "So let's order Chinese food. What do you want?"

"I haven't already crashed your movie training plan with all the sweets?"

He shrugs. "So I'll run a few more miles tomorrow. We can go together, if you like…" It's the uncertainty in his voice that makes her lean closer, wrap her arms around his neck and press her lips softly to his. She's done this – she's made him question that she _wants_ him, and she's got to find a way to prove to him that _want_ has never been close to being a problem. There are so many things she's not ready for when it comes to Killian, but this bit of affection, she can give him this.

The happy smile he wears when she pulls back is all the proof she needs it's a gift well given.

She waits for the panic to overtake her at his behavior, but it doesn't come. She's exhausted with the rollercoaster her emotions have been on all day, but this finally feels right. It's hard to put her finger on exactly where the change has come from – Killian's display of emotion terrified her earlier this afternoon – but every word he said to her in the pool rang true.

He's willing to wait – and he's not going to hold it over her head.

It's a quiet evening that leaves her warm and safe in his arms, even as they tease each other and eat from cardboard boxes with cheap plastic chopsticks. Emma doesn't care. It's nice to relax with him, to not worry if her every move gives him the wrong impression, if her eyes roam over his body in too bold a glance. She leans into him, enjoys her food and watches the movie he puts on, one of David's older pieces with plenty of sword fighting and horseback riding. He says it's research. She says it's his opportunity to mock his friend, and she's positive they're both a little right.

"How's that going, by the way?" she asks as another round of fighting ends on the screen, cutting away to the story's love interest. "I know you told me Regina was working on it, but I…" She shrugs, leaving the rest unsaid. She hasn't asked. She hasn't wanted to know, to be invested in him.

She wants to know now.

"She's had a bunch of meetings. She says things are promising and the suits seem to be coming around. It's not even fully green lit yet, so they won't really commit to anything. Dave's a shoo-in, but…" He trails off, not bothering to finish his sentence. "Well, you know what they say about preparation and all that…"

"You looked plenty prepared out on that ranch today." The words come out breathier than she intends, and he shifts until they're facing each other, his lips close to hers.

"Ah, so you find me to be an accomplished…" He pauses, one brow raising in suggestion. "...rider?"

If anyone else said it to her, she would laugh, the way his voice lingers on the last word with a wicked gleam in his eye in spite of his teasing grin. He's promised to wait, and the words are lightly said – but it still sends a shiver down her spine to see the heat in his gaze.

It's too easy to climb onto his lap, to push him back against the couch and lower her lips to his, the movie forgotten. Just because she's not quite ready for the intimacy of sex doesn't mean she doesn't thrill in the soft groan she can pull from him as her tongue tastes the sensitive skin along his throat.

He lets her lead for a time, one hand in her hair, working the fingers of the other under the thick sweatshirt to splay across her back. She knows they should stop, knows it's getting more and more difficult to not rock her hips into his, and she tells herself she needs to pull away, but he's moving them already, lifting and then lowering her down, settling his weight over her. A wave of lust crashes over her, her fingers tangling in his hair as her eyes close with the pleasure of it, giving into the urge to move against him.

He breaks the kiss with a low groan, but Emma's protest dies on her lips as he eases down her body with a heated glance. He pushes her sweatshirt up enough to kiss along her flat stomach, his hand caressing her thigh. Every inch of her skin is alive, lightning racing through her veins as his tongue drags across her skin. She very nearly gives in at that moment, to hell with the consequences, but he finds a ticklish spot, the rasp of his stubbled jaw making her burst into giggles.

Her laughter breaks the intensity, but he only grins up at her. "We should…" His voice is thick, and she notices the way he's holding himself over her, careful to keep his hips from touching her.

"Stop," she agrees, her eyes still locked on his. "Before we can't."

"Right."

"I, um…I'm going to put the food away." She gestures to the containers on the coffee table, flushing as he sits back and helps her up.

* * *

He lets her go, because, bloody hell, he requires a minute to calm down. Sleeping beside her as he has been is torture, but this, this is going to break him. He's never wanted a woman this fiercely in his life, and to have her soft body under his, to have her breathing out his name in a whisper, it tests his resolve like nothing else.

It's a lucky thing he eased the tension in his body earlier in the shower – without that release he's not sure he would have retained any bloody presence of mind to slow things down.

But he's going to have to find a way to deal with it, because he is _not_ screwing this up over not being able to control himself. There may be a great deal of showers in his future, but it will be worth it. So he sits back on the sofa, forces his mind to conjure up something ridiculous – Dave in drag as a ludicrous princess in pink does nicely – and manages to be almost relaxed by the time she returns, a nervous smile on her lips.

She doesn't sit back down right away, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"Don't ever apologize for kissing me, love." He reaches for her hand, and draws her down into a warm embrace. He gently presses a kiss to her hair, relief flooding through him as she allows him to hold her close.

"I just…I don't want you to feel like I said…and then…"

"Emma." She looks up from where she's been twisting her fingers together, and he can see the surprise in her eyes – as if she expects frustration now just as she did in the pool earlier. And he has that – oh does he have that – but he's trying to understand where she's coming from, and he focuses on his concern as he looks her in the eye. "I'm not going to give up kissing you just because you're not ready for more. I _like_ kissing you, even if that's all that you're comfortable with right now. I meant it when I said we have all the time in the world."

The tension fades from her shoulders, her expression softening, and he realizes with a wave of relief, somehow, she believes him.

* * *

Many, many, many thanks to onceuponsomechaos for putting up with me on this one. Writers are a neurotic, insecure bunch by nature, and this chapter brought out my crazy. I am so happy I have you.

Y'all should also thank her because the pool and shower scenes were much shorter before I got the MOAR demand.

Anyway, if you're still alive (an awful lot of you seem to be dead after reading lately) I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	15. Chapter 15

They don't tell Regina.

"It's none of her bloody business," Killian says fiercely when she mentions it, curled into his side on a lounge chair next to the fire. It's a cool night, their legs tangled together beneath a blanket, and until she opened her mouth, peaceful.

"Are you sure?"

"I have never been more certain of anything in my life than I am about you, Emma." The firelight catches in his eyes, burning embers that can see into her soul. "Regina's opinion on the matter is of no importance. What she sees won't change, and therefore there is no reason to give her an opportunity to upset you."

She nods, glad when his arms tighten around her. His fingers trail through her hair, soothing strokes that have her all but falling asleep with her cheek against his chest. Her protest when he carries her to bed is half-hearted at best – she prefers falling asleep with the warmth of his bare skin under her palm.

The man forgoes a shirt every damn opportunity he gets. Emma doesn't complain – she will never complain about the sight of that man's exposed skin – but it's not making their precarious self-control any better.

The point is only driven home as another quiet evening in the backyard quickly turns into a tangle of limbs stretched out on one of the patio chairs. He seems to get just as lost in the moment as she is, the barest hint of a rhythm to the movement of his hips against hers making them both gasp – until he suddenly breaks away, eyes wild as he pulls himself back to kneel between her legs, his hands clenched on his thighs.

"Is something wrong?"

"I merely require a moment." He shifts his weight, and her eyes follow the movement, the tightness of his jeans obvious. "You will be the death of me, love."

She doesn't know how they manage to stop, how he settles them back into a cozy embrace instead of having her right there on the patio – but the truth is, she knows Killian well enough to know he _wouldn't_ ever just have her on a lounge chair in the backyard. Not their first time together. No, he'll insist on taking her to bed like a _proper gentleman._

And that is exactly why she isn't entirely ready for it. Killian isn't the man who confesses his love only after taking her virginity in the backseat of a car. He's been all in for a long time, and when it comes to the physical side of their relationship, it won't just be about pleasure between the sheets. The man brings such emotion to his kisses alone that when they do take that last step over the edge, it won't just be about all the delicious things he can do with his hands and his tongue – it will be about that look he gets in his eyes when he thinks she isn't watching.

It's never been like this before, not with any of the men Emma has been with in one fashion or another – a single look from him sends white-hot desire through her veins. Once he touches her, once they start kissing, all rational thought leaves her mind. It's a continuous struggle to remember in the moment _why_ she told him she wanted to wait – why she _does_ want to wait.

It just feels like they're not _really_ together when their physical relationship amounts to what seems like little more than teenagers making out on the couch. Being together should mean Killian doesn't have to hold back, doesn't have to swallow the words she can all but see on the tip of his tongue some days. Yet for her to be with him, to truly give herself over, Emma has to let him in – and that means spilling her secrets.

It also requires she name the tightening in her chest when Regina showed them red carpet photos from an event last week, pleased as punch about their _performance_. In one photo, Emma smiles for the camera, but Killian...Killian has eyes only for her. She's never exactly doubted he meant what he said to her all those nights ago, but to _see_ it caught on film is quite another matter.

No man has ever looked at her like that – and yet, in another photo, an identical expression is on her face while he's the one staring into the camera.

That same damn softness is likely in her eyes as she traces the contour of his cheek. In the faint light of the approaching dawn, the pads of her fingers move along soft skin as it gives way to coarse hair along his jaw. He's still asleep, face relaxed and breathing even. She savors these moments, the quiet stillness of the morning cocooning around them before the day's obligations take over.

She shifts closer, needing more of him, to kiss along his shoulder and taste the delicate skin above his collarbones. The movement erases what little space separates them, his leg between hers now tucked against her in a most delicious manner. But that's nothing compared to the length of him tight against her hip. If she shifted just a little higher…

Her breath catches as he stirs in his sleep, providing the friction she craves. She should stop, let him sleep, but his skin is velvet under her fingertips as she traces an invisible pattern she repeats with her tongue. Unoccupied, her hand slips down his side, her breaths short as the overwhelming urge to touch him, to have him heavy in her palm, consumes her. He stopped them last night, but this morning, all she can think about is picking up where they left off.

His fingers circle around her wrist just before she reaches her intended target. "Emma…" His voice is hoarse, nearly strangled as he keeps her from lowering her hand. "Love, what are you…"

She turns her gaze to his, expecting to find sleep-filled eyes by the roughness of his voice, but he's alert and watching her intently. "I…I woke up, and…" Words fail her, so she tilts her head back, lips finding his in a kiss that has her pressing the entire line of her body against him, the thinness of her shirt doing little to keep the warmth of his body from her sensitive skin.

"I woke up and I wanted...I _needed_ to touch you," she manages to finally say as they break apart, running her fingers through his hair even as she says it. She wanted the same thing last night, wanted _more_ before Killian's monumental self-control kicked in.

"You seem to be doing that right now." The words are casual, but she knows him well enough to sense the tension in his body – and if that didn't give him away, the growing hardness against her hip – and his tone of barely-restrained lust – does the trick.

"Killian, I want…" She stops, her entire body on fire as he brings their lips together again, every small movement feeding the flames.

"Name it and it's yours." The vow is more growl than words, his hand leaving her back to slide along her waist, edging up her tank top to dance his fingers along the curve of her hip. "Anything, love," he whispers, his voice filled with heated promise, and she shouldn't say it. She should stop, get out of bed, and go take a shower.

"I want the same thing I wanted last night," she says instead, her eyes locking on his despite the flush in her cheeks. "Please, Killian. Can I touch you?" Her hand on his chest drifts lower, and his eyes darken as she asks her breathless question.

His swallow is audible, and she thinks for a moment he may refuse her, conflict raging in his eyes before they close and he nods. "Aye." The answer is ragged, his palm settling on the small of her back once again.

She smiles, his voice sending a shiver of anticipation down her spine. She pushes gently on his shoulder until he lays flat on his back, one of her legs thrown over his while she holds herself up on one elbow. The movement takes one hand off her back, the other tangling her hair. His gaze falls to her lips as she leans down to kiss him again, the blue of his eyes dark. He palms her breast, the thin shirt doing nothing to dull the sensation of his thumb brushing against her nipple.

The kiss swallows her gasp, but Killian must hear it, and applies more pressure. Her hand wraps around his wrist, tugging gently. There's confusion in his eyes as she guides his hand to his side. "My turn." Her words are firm, and she holds his stare, licking her bottom lip at the desire in his gaze.

"Bloody hell," he curses, his fingers fisting into the sheet as he draws in a breath. The hand in her hair travels lower, settling between her shoulder blades in an unspoken compromise.

Emma watches his face as her hand dips lower over tensed muscle. His eyes are focused entirely on her, but the moment she reaches her goal, they snap shut, air hissing through his teeth.

Her first touch is only a graze through the thin pants he wears to bed. The fabric does little to diminish the heat of his skin, and he lets loose a string of curses as her fingers become more deft. The hand between her shoulder blades clenches into a fist against her back before relaxing into a loose grip on her shoulder with obvious effort.

Emma isn't sure what's more of a turn on – the pleasure on his face or the low moans her touch draws out of him. But it's not _enough_ to touch him like this – this isn't what she _wants_.

Her fingers find their way to the waistband of his pants, but he stops her before she can slip her hand beneath the fabric. His eyes snap open, taking her breath away with the raw hunger in them. "Emma, love, I can't...if you...are you truly ready to…" He stops, his jaw tightening as he visibly fights for control. "I fear the touch of your skin in that particular area will send us down a path you may not be ready for."

 _I don't care_.

But she hesitates, his grip tightening on her wrist as he brings her hand to his lips. Despite her low whine of protest, despite her attempt to assure him that _yes_ she is ready with the press of her body against his, all he does is gently kiss her fingers.

"You hesitated, love. I will not…" His eyes soften, his other hand moving to brush the hair out of her eyes, his thumb caressing her flushed cheek. "When you are ready, I will hold nothing back from you." He pulls her closer, brushing a whisper of a kiss against her lips, gentle despite the tension she can feel in every part of him.

His expression shifts as they break apart, the familiar teasing smirk pulling at his lips. "I think I'll go have my shower now."

"You don't have to…"

"Aye, love. I do." A trace of heat reappears in the words, his eyes roaming her body as if cataloging her every feature, and her cheeks flush deeper at the implication as he kisses her once more before giving her a gentle nudge. She sighs, reluctantly rolling onto her back to let him up, her eyes on his back until the bathroom door shuts behind him.

She shouldn't be surprised. Killian's showers have grown noticeably longer in the last few weeks, but the knowledge of him mere feet away, touching himself while thinking of her...

Not that she can judge him. She's not exactly taking less time these days either.

If only she hadn't hesitated – but he's right. She wants to be ready for this, wants to be ready for everything, but she's not. It seems strange to be putting so much emphasis on it – there have been plenty of men in her bed. But none of them _mattered_. Just the one, but that was a long time ago, and thinking about the consequences of _that_ will only lead to a black hole of despair.

Pushing the thought away, Emma gives over to a much simpler choice, her hand moving beneath the tangled sheets – Killian isn't the only one in need of release.

* * *

Killian feels guilty for days over how far things went, how long it took for him to put a stop to it _knowing_ Emma wasn't ready. He keeps himself more tightly controlled than ever, hyperaware of every touch. It isn't until Emma whispers against his lips _kiss me like you mean it_ that he relents.

A little.

He knew agreeing to her request set him up for the sweetest kind of torture, but he hadn't anticipated just how quickly her touch would undo him. Thankfully, Emma hasn't attempted a repeat of that morning – though truthfully, waking beside her is bloody tempting enough.

But it's not just that. The woman standing beside him at Starbucks as they wait in line for their coffee is not the same guarded woman who walked through his front door so many months ago. This Emma is generous with her affection, _genuine_ affection, and it's nearly impossible for him to wipe the smile off his face that David has described as _dopey_.

He signs autographs while their drinks are made, constantly glancing over his shoulder at her. She's watching with a smile, but when he returns to her side, she hands him his coffee with a kiss that lingers perhaps a little longer than necessary.

"What was that for?" he asks as he holds the door open for her to exit the coffee shop.

"Just making Regina happy. They all had their phones out." She smiles at him, but something else lurks in her eyes.

It only takes him a moment to realize she's _jealous_.

"Emma." They're in the car now, tinted windows hiding them from prying eyes as he sets his drink in the cupholder and turns to her. "You have nothing to worry about, love." He leans across the center console, drawing her into a kiss far more appropriate for the privacy of their own home before pulling away to start the car, contentment filling his veins. It wasn't that long ago he had to consider his every move around her quite carefully – kissing her when he pleases is a treasure, indeed. "But anytime you would like to stake your claim, I'll be happy to oblige you."

She swats his arm, but she's smiling and she keeps it up right through their trip down the grocery store aisles. Regina made this request – they haven't been seen in public much lately, holing up in the house together – and Killian was annoyed at first.

But there's something different about this errand when Emma isn't putting on a show. Her fingers find his easily, and whether it's to reach behind him for a box of pasta or to tease him over his choice of coffee brands, she doesn't stop touching him.

 _Please, Killian. Can I touch you?_

He shivers at the memory, quickly banishing it before he finds the paparazzi in possession of rather embarrassing photos.

"What should we make for dinner tonight?" Emma's question breaks him out of his thoughts, her brow furrowed as she stares at the seafood counter. "I was thinking we could grill swordfish steaks and maybe some corn on the cob? I like it when we hang out on the patio together. It might be cool enough tonight to light the fire."

All Killian hears is _we_ as he wraps his arms around her waist from behind and ducks his head to speak into her ear. "That sounds delightful, love." He presses a kiss to her hair as he straightens, happy when she doesn't move out of his embrace.

Emma leans back into his arms while she orders the fish, her thumb stroking the inside of his wrist as they wait for their purchase to be packaged. She doesn't seem to even realize she's doing it, and it's just this sort of effortless affection that only makes him fall for her harder each and every day.

He snaps a photo of her that night, firelight in her hair and her lips curved into a smile. He wants – _needs_ – to capture the look in her eyes, blissful and relaxed and looking at him like he's hung the moon.

When he posts it on Instagram, he isn't thinking about Regina or her never-ending demands. For a moment in time, in the peace of the backyard with Emma warm against him, he isn't a movie star with a PR machine to feed – he's just a man who wants to show off the woman he loves.

He hasn't always made the right decisions when it comes to Emma, but he doesn't truly regret any of them – good and bad alike have led him here.

Here, there's a woman whose eyes light up when she sees him.

Here, there's a woman who is free with her warmth where she was once distant and cool.

Here, there's a woman he's pretty sure is falling just as much in love with him as he is with her.

* * *

 **This chapter is on the shorter side. I know you're all thinking WHY MUST YOU TORTURE US SO but the truth is that the original draft of this chapter turned into something 3x as long. (You can all thank my lovely beta, the MOAR monster onceuponsomechaos for that one.) It needed to be split and this was a good breaking point. The GOOD news is that because of that, chapter 16 is really close to being done and should only take a few days to get up. I'm thinking Tuesday...because school is boring and reading your comments/reactions/messages from the grave is much more interesting than cost accounting.**


	16. Chapter 16

She's whining today, and she knows it. She should stop. It's really not very mature of her, but she's loathe to give up the perfectly comfortable spot in the sun with a Killian-shaped pillow. "Five more minutes," she mumbles into his shoulder.

She feels the vibration of his low chuckle as much as she hears it. "Were it left to me, darling, I wouldn't leave this spot until you requested it. But Regina and company will be here at any moment, and you've not showered yet."

Emma scowls, finally lifting her cheek from his warm skin. They've had a lazy morning by the pool, leaving their shared lounge chair only long enough to cool off when the sun became too hot. "Isn't it sort of ridiculous that the woman who hired me to pretend to date you is the same one we don't want to know we're really together?"

He smiles, threading his fingers into her tangled hair. "Aye, a bit ridiculous. Dave said…" He hesitates, his eyes avoiding hers for a split second before he finishes his thought. "Dave said we should tell her for the sole purpose of irritating her as much as she irritates us."

"Dave said?"

He licks his lip nervously before nodding, a sheepish grin slowly appearing. "Aye. He figured us out some time ago."

"As in he knows how we really met?"

"Aye."

"And he knows that it's...that things have changed between us?"

His eyes soften, his fingers leaving her hair to stroke down her arm and over her waist. "Aye, he knows how I feel about you, love." He kisses her forehead, his free hand moving to scratch behind his ear. "I didn't exactly tell him the tale, but he guessed and I did not correct him."

His visible nervousness at her reaction soothes the irritation at not being told sooner. _You haven't told him all your secrets_ , she chides herself, smiling reassuringly and pushing his hair off his forehead. "How long ago was this?"

"The day I made a bloody fool of myself attempting to solve my problems with a rum bottle rather than speaking with you."

The raw honesty of the words tugs at her, a rush of emotion slamming into her at the painful memory. "Let's not do that again," she says quietly, leaning in for a kiss that turns into another. She pulls back reluctantly, her eyes flickering to the house. "I really need to go shower."

He hums his agreement, but he still guides her lips to his for one more soft kiss before he releases her.

Emma can't help but stop in the doorway, her eyes roaming over him as he settles back into the chair. She keeps waiting for it to wear off, the almost desperate need to be by his side, but it's been weeks and, if anything, the need is stronger than ever. With a sigh of longing, she turns for the bathroom to begin the tedious process of readying for tonight's event.

She's been dreading this one. It's a movie neither of them has any interest in, but it's produced by the studio Killian is trying to impress and he's been invited. Regina informed him they would be going the day the invitation arrived.

"Everything all right, love?" he asks when she sighs in the car, their fingers twined together.

"Yeah. I just…" She shrugs, taking her eyes from the window and turning toward him. "I just wish tonight we could stay home. I want to try that recipe I told you about, and I want to just… I don't want to share you tonight." She forces a smile, straightening his tie and brushing invisible lint off his jacket. It's not like she needs an excuse to touch him, not anymore, but she's suddenly shy when she explains she rather spend the night at home.

"I would like nothing more." He kisses the back of her hand, his eyes catching on the slim diamond ring Regina insisted she wear on her right ring finger. Emma assumes it's a calculated move to draw the attention of the paparazzi, but she didn't expect Killian to even notice.

He doesn't say anything, but his eyes fill with longing, and it sends tremors down her spine. They haven't talked about what happens next – what happens when their year is up and Regina expects to parade a newly single Killian Jones around town.

Emma isn't sure what he expects, if he even has any expectations. But she isn't cut out for throwing dinner parties and sitting on boards of charities, filling her days from now until forever with yoga classes and afternoons by the pool. And beyond that…beyond that are rings not so different from the one on her right hand, and Emma is _definitely_ not cut out to be someone's wife.

And what if he wants kids? She's seen how he looks at David's son. She can't even think about _that_.

She shoves the thoughts away, pressing herself to him on the red carpet and trying to focus on the feel of his hands on her, the silk gown smooth against her skin, and the promise of an early night at home.

Only that isn't what the evening has in store for them.

Killian is being his usual charming self with one of the studio executives when they're called in for the screening, and he whispers a _sorry, love_ in her ear as they take the seats beside the man who – in part – controls Killian's future.

The movie is dull, and no matter what she does to try to focus on it instead of her worries, it can't hold her attention. She glances at Killian out of the corner of her eye, his attention firmly on the screen. She knows him well enough by now, knows the look on his face is fabricated for his neighbor. He won't offer much of a distraction tonight, fixated as he is on making a good impression. She stares at the screen, struggling not to fidget as her mind wanders.

She should ask him outright what he sees as a future for them. Not here of course, but when they get home… Though maybe he hasn't brought it up because he's trying to give her space – she _is_ the one who fought against the relationship for months in spite of her near instant attraction to him.

But the way he looked at that damn ring in the car… She spins the piece of jewelry on her finger, sneaking another nervous glance at him. Is that the future he sees? Forever?

Her emotions are too tangled tonight to determine if it's a comfort or another worry to add to the pile.

Killian keeps her close as they move on to the party, once again falling into shop talk with the producer. Emma leans her head against his shoulder, struggling not to yawn or otherwise embarrass him. She concentrates instead on the warmth of his palm on her hip through the dress, the scent of him, spicy with the cologne he's wearing tonight.

She does her best not to glare at the man ruining her quiet night at home with Killian and peanut butter frosting.

They leave the party far later than they usually would have made their excuses – far later than Emma likes. There's a dull throb behind her eyes from the hours of loud music and her feet hurt horribly. She should have told Tink the shoes were uncomfortable from the start, but they went so perfectly with the dress she foolishly thought it would be fine – it was supposed to be an early night.

Killian is all apologies for the way their evening has gone. He kisses her in the car before pulling her feet onto his lap, slipping off her shoes and gently massaging the sore tendons. Emma can't help but moan softly at the relief his hands bring, a flicker of heat brightening his tired expression at the sound.

"Would you like me to draw you a bath?" he asks as they enter the house, Emma walking gingerly.

His simple offer and genuine concern for her erase her disappointment as she drops her shoes to slide her palms up his chest. "I think all I want to do is wash off this makeup and crawl into bed." She stretches up on her toes, her arms winding around his neck as she kisses him, a kiss that deepens as her grip tightens. "Are you staying up?"

"I've spent enough time tonight with my thoughts elsewhere." He takes her hand as they start down the hall, his finger grazing the diamond ring in a move that feels intentional. But he doesn't say anything else, and when she gets into bed he gathers her close like any other night. Sleep comes surprisingly easy tucked into his arms, the exhaustion of the day taking over.

But in the morning, despite Killian's soft kisses and sleepy embrace, her worries wait for her. They nag at her as the days slip by, whispering doubt into her ear at every turn.

One thing is abundantly clear – she should tell him the full truth about her life in Boston. It was one thing when they were reluctant friends with a mutual finish line. Now…now it seems so much more real. Killian is far more invested in her than she's wanted to admit.

But will he still want her when he knows the entire truth?

Where does she even begin? She should have just told him that day in the hospital, when the wounds were already open and raw. How does she tell him now that she left out a huge piece of the puzzle?

How does she explain the jagged edges, the scars that have never quite healed? Because she's not sure she _can_. She's not sure how she can tell him in a way he might understand, because he wasn't _there_. Whatever the details of his past he hasn't told her, it doesn't change that he's a successful actor now, that his life is _good_.

Up until Emma somehow found herself along for the ride, her life was still scraping and scrambling, ramen noodles and five hundred square feet of space she could barely call her own.

She didn't make it out – she got lucky.

At least the morning is cool and gray, the steely sky a match for her thoughts. In spite of Killian's warm sweatshirt over the tank top she wore to bed last night, the breeze still sends a shiver through her.

"Are you all right, love?" His voice breaks her out of her thoughts, his palm settling on the curve of her right shoulder as he presses a kiss to her cheek, the scrape of his stubble a welcome sensation. "You've been out here awhile." He left her reluctantly some time ago to get ready for his meeting, and she realizes belatedly she's barely moved, her legs tucked under her on the patio lounge chair with her eyes staring out at the misty morning.

She forces a smile, tries to banish her heavy thoughts and takes a sip of the coffee that's long gone cold. "Of course. Just thinking about what I'll do with myself today."

It should work. It's worked before. But he knows her better than ever, and he steps around so they're face to face, his palms cupping her cheeks as he sits down on the chair beside her. "What's troubling you?"

"Killian, really, I'm okay. Aren't you supposed to be at Regina's office in like ten minutes? You know she hates it when you're late."

He sighs, pressing a kiss to her forehead before getting to his feet. "Aye, I was on my way out and you just seemed…" There's concern in his words, and she can see he's having a hard time stepping away, his brows furrowed and jaw tight. "Regina was suspiciously vague, so I can't be certain when I'll be back. I'll call if it will be long."

She watches him go, trying not to lick her her lips as she takes him in. Whatever is going on today, it was worth him putting on a deliciously snug pair of black pants to go with his deep blue button up, the color setting off his eyes. He's even made an attempt to tame his messy hair, and Emma practically itches to run her fingers through it, set it back the way she likes him best – slightly disheveled.

It's a far cry from the man she met so many months ago, stinking of rum and god knows what else, barely able to sit upright on Regina's couch. With the exception of the afternoon on the patio with David, he hasn't been fall-down drunk once.

She frowns, heading back into the house for a fresh cup of coffee. The drinking isn't something they've ever really talked about either, and she wonders if maybe it's because he's got jagged edges and scars too.

There's so much they still don't know about each other.

But she knows pain, and she knows the desperate urge to crawl inside a bottle to hide from the shattered remnants of her life. She just never gave into it – couldn't _afford_ to give into it. He doesn't talk about his life before Hollywood, not since that clipped version in the hospital bathroom. But she remembers his voice when Regina brought up his past with a certain paparazzi's wife, and she remembers what he had to say about her crappy apartment.

 _I've lived in apartments like that and worse, Swan. I know what it is to claw your way out of that life._

She thinks about their promise from what feels like forever ago – _no lies_. And it's not that she's lied to him. He hasn't asked. And before, she didn't really feel an obligation to tell him anything overly personal.

Her life in Boston is as personal as it gets.

The longer she thinks about it, the more it bothers her. Sure, she knows how much he loves chocolate, and what he looks like with that sleepy half-smile in the morning, and that he actually _hates_ tea, and a thousand other little details. But is that _enough_? If she's going to turn her heart over to him, she wants to know _his_.

It's going to be a hard conversation. They'll probably need alcohol. And cupcakes, because Killian loves her cupcakes, and she needs to soften the blow as much as she can, because who is she kidding? She's already in deep – and if this is too much for him, if he can't look at her the same after she bares her soul, it's going to ruin her.

 _I intend to prove you wrong_.

She holds onto those words as she strips off his heavy sweatshirt and sets to work baking, the kitchen soon filled with the smells of chocolate and sugar. It settles her, the rhythm and precision of it, and she's piping frosting in careful swirls when she hears the front door open and close, Killian's distinct steps on the floorboards.

"In the kitchen!" she calls out, nervously setting down the piping bag and wiping her palms on her jeans. She's just going to tell him – rip the band-aid off. By the end of the night, he will know all of the pieces she left out when she told him about Neal and her time in jail.

As soon as he sees her, he crosses the room in two quick steps, pulls her into his arms and kisses her much more enthusiastically than he usually does when he comes home. She pulls away with a surprised smile, about to ask what that was all about when she sees the joy in his eyes, the way he's grinning like a fool.

"I got it." He says it with amazement, like he still can't quite believe it. He's practically _giddy_ , and it's contagious, Emma's fears temporarily driven away by his happiness. "Did you know?" he asks, gesturing to the fresh chocolate cupcakes on the counter. "Regina said she knew yesterday but the suits wanted to be there to tell me. They had their bit about me not mucking this one up, but I _got_ it, Emma!"

"No, I didn't know." She kisses him again, chocolate and joy shared between them, and that damn tightness in her chest she can't – _won't_ – name quite yet. "Just a happy coincidence," she says as they break apart, because there is no way she's bringing up Boston now. Not when he's this excited – she won't ruin his night with the past, won't fight the smile on her own lips.

 _It can wait_ , she tells herself firmly, swallowing the fear she won't be able to find the nerve to tell him again, that this tiny window of opportunity is escaping.

"There's more." His eyes are sparkling, and he threads their fingers together, pulls her closer until she's leaning into him. "It's a three month shoot in Scotland. We finish up in the studio here for a month or two after, but it's mostly location work. They're housing us in Inverness, and we'll drive out to locations as we go. There may even be a few nights they have us stay in trailers because some of these places are quite remote."

"Oh." Disappointment floods through her – he's going to be _gone_ for three months. She forces a smile onto her face, because he's entitled to his excitement, and she's not going to ruin that for him no matter what. Things are _good_ between them, and she knows he's not _leaving_ leaving, but it's a punch to the gut anyway.

Never mind the fact that this role has been the finish line since the day she signed her name to those contracts - and she's not even remotely ready for things to be over. He isn't acting like the movie is going to change anything between them, but he's leaving and the old insecurity is hard to shove down. Will he still want her when he comes back?

"Emma." There's a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but the tenderness drowns it out in the blink of an eye. His thumb rubs gently along her cheekbone, and he sighs, a happy sigh. "You silly lass. You didn't think for a second I wouldn't insist you accompany me?"

Her eyes snap up to his, widening in surprise. "I just…I mean, am I _allowed_? Regina said once you got this role…"

He cuts her off with a kiss, his lips demanding, his hands sliding down her legs until he grips the backs of her thighs, and easily lifts her onto the counter, stepping between her legs. He's usually much more restrained – especially since _that_ morning. But today, he's letting every ounce of longing show, his lips hungry with long reined-in passion.

Yet as suddenly as he pounced on her, he relents, his kisses turning tender. His fingers uncurl from where they've tightly gripped one of her hips, trailing lightly over her thigh even as the other hand moves into her hair. The slightest pressure tilts her head slightly, giving him access to her throat as kisses down her jaw to the more sensitive skin. It's hard not to get lost completely in it, the brush of his lips sending shivers down her spine as the fear of being left behind melts away.

It's not so different from their first real kisses in the pool together, Killian's emotions pouring out of him. But today she's not afraid to embrace it – she sighs with the pleasure of his body against hers, cradles his hips between her thighs and tugs him closer. When she nudges his lips back to hers to recapture the kiss she longs for, it's not the desperate need of him proving a point, or her trying to forget the love in his eyes. It's affectionate and sweet, and when they break apart, his thumb traces over her reddened lips, his voice thick. "Would you like to question my intention to have you with me in Scotland again, love?"

"Will you kiss me like that again if I do?" she teases, tugging his shirt to bring him back to her, pressing a featherlight kiss where his neck meets his shoulder. Bless the man for never bothering to fully button his shirts – she's happy to have access to this spot, to hear the noise it draws out from deep in his throat.

The soft noise turns to almost a growl as she pulls back. He chases her, nips at her collarbones as he mumbles against her skin. "Bloody minx."

She threads her fingers into his hair as he leans his forehead against hers, his eyes closing. "I'm so proud of you," she says softly, one hand moving to stroke the back of his neck. Forget the kiss, forget her own guilt at hiding the truth from him – he needs to know this more than anything else right now.

He leans back, his eyes popping open to regard her curiously. "Proud, Swan?"

"This whole thing with me and your image and what Regina's been doing…you know that's only a tiny bit of the reason you got this, right? Really, I'm not sure it's even an actual reason." She pauses, stretching to brush her lips against his again, her hands balanced on his chest as she leans back to look him in the eye. She needs to keep touching him, to keep kissing him – to keep enforcing how much she wants him no matter what, that she means every word. "You've worked so hard, training with David, and going to all those press events even when you didn't want to. You _worked_ for this, and so, yes, I'm _proud_."

"I haven't had someone proud of me in quite some time." There's an odd note in the words, a trace of longing and loneliness, an old sadness in his eyes she's determined to drive out.

"Well, you do now." She surprises herself with the fierceness of her words, and maybe him a little too as she grabs the collar of his shirt, pulls him back down for another searing kiss that leaves them both panting.

And god, does she _want_ him – but there are still secrets between them. She won't air them now, not when he's happy and they should be celebrating. But she won't take that final step of cementing them together until she's told him everything – she owes him that.

So she pulls back just enough for him to get the hint, his breathing labored as he leans his forehead against hers again. They don't speak right away, each catching their breaths and working to calm down their fevered bodies, but Emma manages a smile as he pulls away. "So when do we leave?"

He grins back, helping her off the counter before he starts to rattle off dates and schedules. He licks the frosting from a cupcake as he talks, feeding her bites of it with soft kisses in between explaining the logistics – chocolate frosting tastes better licked from his fingers and lips than from a fork.

She means to tell him in those weeks of preparation, to carve out space for them to _talk_ , but it's a whirlwind of costume fittings and meetings and him muttering over the script at all hours of the day and night, repeating the words to himself endlessly. She runs lines with him, and she cooks healthy dinners, goes running with him, hangs out with her book under a tree as he rides with David out at the ranch, but there's no damn _time_ to have the conversation she wants to have. There's not even time for another lazy afternoon ride sharing the saddle, though he promises in between stolen kisses to teach her to ride when the movie wraps.

Though somehow, there's time for a conversation that completely takes her off-guard.

David finds her at the ranch one day, Killian insisting on taking one more go at the jumps they've been practicing all morning. He's become more focused than ever, determined to avoid having a stuntman unless the studio's insurance requires it – it won't be because of his lack of ability.

She's watching him intently from her perch on the rail when David hoists himself up next to her. He's always been easy to be around, but since Killian revealed David knows the entire truth, they've formed a tentative sort of friendship. They stare together as Killian executes a sharp turn before heading for one of the more difficult jumps, his body low against the horse as they pick up speed.

Emma doesn't realize she's holding her breath until it whooshes out of her as he lands safely, his whoop of triumph audible across the ring. She flexes her fingers, laughing quietly at herself. Since when did she turn into such a nervous wreck?

"I hope you know you mean the world to him," David says, his eyes still on his friend. "There's not a lot of people who matter to him, but you matter, Emma. A lot."

"I know." She swallows, her throat suddenly tight. She doesn't look at him either, her eyes trained on Killian in the saddle as he leans over to pat the horse's neck, a happy grin on his face. "He means a lot to me, too."

"You love him." It's not a question, the words quiet but certain. But it still throws her as thoroughly as the horse might have, words failing her as she turns to meet his inquisitive stare. Her eyes dart back toward Killian before she speaks, her thoughts tangled together. Her feelings for Killian have shifted, and she hasn't dared admit it aloud, not even to herself, but she can't deny it any longer – she's been in love with him for some time.

"Yes," she finally whispers, her cheeks flushing as she admits the truth out loud for the first time. "I do."

"You should tell him." David's reproach is gentle, but Emma finds it hard to breathe anyway. She shouldn't have admitted it to David before telling Killian – but she has other things she needs to tell him first.

Because she _is_ in love with him, and it wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to have this sort of power over her, to be able to smile at her and make her heart pound. She wasn't supposed to be capable of falling in love again, and yet...

"I...I will."

Killian rejoins them before Emma can say anything else, and she shoves all thought of confessing her love from her mind – she doesn't want an audience, even if it is just David. Instead she focuses on the afternoon, and Killian, and the gift of this time she has with him, however long it lasts.

She means to tell him, to share not only her newfound certainty in her love for him, but the secrets too – only the moment never seems quite right.

She misses him the days he's so busy he barely stops to eat. He comes to bed late the nights he's in meetings, crawling into bed to press his cold skin against her warm body.. He's often asleep before she can so much as kiss him. It's a good exhausted – his weary expression still glows with the pride of being back to work – but she doesn't want to bring up such serious topics as her past and her feelings when he can barely keep his eyes open. So she swallows it down, ignoring the increasing panic clawing at her throat that he's somehow going to find out about her past before she has the chance to tell him herself.

 _Let us make a bargain, love. I won't lie to you. You won't lie to me. That is how we'll get through this._

She tells herself she's not lying, but it sure _feels_ like lying.

One afternoon she almost just blurts it out, almost tells him the truth about everything.

"Hey, we'll be in Scotland for Thanksgiving and Christmas, right?" she asks as he enters the living room, the script in his hand. They've been doing rewrites, and he's been muttering over the pages all morning while Emma shops online for sweaters and hats and gloves.

Somehow she stumbled onto Santa hats and stockings, her heart giving an unexpected squeeze as she glanced at the mantle over the fireplace. She didn't want to interrupt him, but now he's come to her, settled in beside her on the couch with a weary but happy smile.

The simple pleasure on his face is almost enough for her to confess her love, to confess about her son, but the words stick in her throat as his happiness softens into that look of his, the one that makes her chest tighten and her heart race. "Aye, we'll be abroad for the holidays. But next year we'll be home." He reaches for her, and she goes willingly, her face pressed to his neck, breathing him in as he buries his nose in her hair. His arm wraps around her shoulder, cradling her protectively against his side while his free hand toys with her hair in comfortable silence.

 _Next year_ , he says, like it's a known fact. He's already thinking about _next year_ , and once, it would have made her panic, but now all she wants is to snuggle deeper into his embrace.

 _Tell him_.

"Do you put up a tree?" she asks instead, stalling. "I haven't had a tree in…" Her voice trails off, because she's not sure how long it's been since she had a Christmas tree. But she wants one now, to decorate the fragrant branches with Killian while sipping hot chocolate and singing along to Christmas carols.

She surprises herself with how badly she wants it.

"I haven't bothered for a time myself, but I did imagine us having a tree this year, before I knew about the movie." His words are quiet, but thick with emotion, and his arm tightens around her shoulders, drawing her in closer. "I find myself quite looking forward to the holidays with you, Emma."

"Me too," she whispers against his chest. It's not _I love you_ but it's pretty damn close. There are still too many secrets between them for her to say it, but he's a perceptive man – she hopes he hears the words anyway.

Which is how she ends up next to him some weeks later, their fingers clasped on the armrest as the plane rumbles down the runway bound for Scotland with her secrets still locked up tight.

* * *

A fluffy chapter is always nice, isn't it?

Many thanks to the beta wonder onceuponsomechaos who continually finds ways to prompt me into better writing...and puts up with my late night writer brain that gets itchy to delete things because they're not good enough.

Posting this before heading to another session of the class with a profoundly irritating professor. Please feel free to entertain me with your comments / questions.

I'm not certain when the next chapter will post, but I promise, that one is well worth the wait. Or so the beta tells me...


	17. Chapter 17

She jerks awake as the plane lands, Killian's low chuckle in her ear as she blinks in the bright cabin lights. "Not nice," she grumbles, swatting at him without any real effort and yawning. She leans over his lap, eager for her first glimpse, but all she can see is the airport.

"I'm perfectly nice. I just allowed you to drool on me for nigh on fifteen hours. Though there was that brief respite in New York, so I should amend my statement."

"I don't…" She stops, noting the grin he's wearing. It earns him a scowl, but he only draws her closer, kisses her softly in spite of the people around them. The flight has been uneventful – a few fans asked for pictures and autographs during their layover at JFK, but otherwise, they've been left alone.

"I'm glad you're here," he says quietly as they break apart, his fingers in her hair and his eyes soft. He doesn't have to spell it out for her that he isn't just talking about Scotland.

"Me too." She threads her fingers with his, squeezing as the plane finally arrives at the gate.

It's a whirlwind from there. They're traveling with David and some of the other actors, Mary Margaret and Leo not due to arrive until Thanksgiving. Together they make their way through the tedious process of luggage and getting to the cars waiting for them. It's been a seemingly endless journey to get here, but she's excited as they pile into the car.

She can't see much on the drive, the setting sun casting long shadows, but she can see enough to know that it's nothing like California and she's _excited_. She's never been outside of the country before, never thought she would get to travel, and she's doing it with Killian at her side.

He catches her eye, grinning, and loops his arm comfortably around her shoulders as they ride to the hotel that will be their home for the next several months.

Emma knows she should expect the place to be nice, but she still isn't fully prepared when she walks into their room behind Killian, their bags already whisked away into the bedroom of the suite.

It's not huge – the hotel is an old converted townhouse from days gone by, but they've got a mini-kitchen and a comfortable living room to work with. Emma runs her fingers over the surfaces, dark woods and plush fabrics, before turning to the bedroom with a raised eyebrow.

"Close quarters, Swan." He does a much better job of leering with his raised eyebrow than she does, and she laughs as he holds out his hand to her. She happily takes it, looping their fingers together as he pushes open the bedroom door.

A giant four-poster bed occupies the center of the room, but they've also got a fireplace, real wood stacked beside it. Killian nods at it, curving his arm around her waist to pull her close. "I'm told it gets quite cold in the winter months, love. We shall have to make good use of that fireplace."

"Oh, I'm sure we'll be plenty warm." She laughs at the genuine surprise on his features, because her words drip with innuendo, and that's usually his role. But he bends to kiss her anyway, holding her close and giving her butt a firm squeeze before he releases her.

For a split-second, Emma remembers standing on that first red carpet, how his hand in the same location made her temper flare – but today, it only makes the fire in her belly burn hotter.

"They're doing a bit of a welcome dinner downstairs in an hour or so. You don't have to attend if you're worn out from the journey, but if you'd like…"

"Of course I'm going with you," she cuts in before he can even finish asking, her fingers curling around his shoulder to squeeze lightly before she backs away with a smile. With a sigh, she stretches her arms high above her head and tries not to eye the bed with longing. "I think I'm going to take a shower, wash off the airplane grossness. Actually wake up."

"I could join you." The offer is light, joking almost, but his eyes burn with a dark desire when she looks up at him. And for a moment, she almost says yes, because there's no escaping him in this hotel room. It's not his sprawling house, where it's easy to put some space between them when things grow heated – no, this is only ending one way.

She shivers at the thought of him, stripped down and pressed to her, his skin warm against hers, and he must see it all over her face, because he takes a step closer, pulls her back into his arms and kisses her like he needs her to breathe.

"Go take your shower," he says hoarsely when he finally backs away, his hands still lingering on her hips, like it's almost impossible for him to keep his hands off of her.

"Your offer…"

"No, Swan." He swallows thickly, releasing her with a gentle push toward the bathroom door. "I said it in jest. Bloody hell, do I want to, but no. The first time I have you will not be up against tile in a cramped shower, and if I take you to bed now, we'll never make it to dinner." The words burn with promise, and she notices the way his eyes dart to the bed before they settle back on her, dangerous with desire. "Go, before I change my mind."

She leans back against the bathroom door once it closes, heart racing. A million thoughts run through her mind, a million possibilities, but they shouldn't miss the first cast dinner – and if she allows herself to follow through on any of her desires, that's what's going to happen.

Besides, she still hasn't told him about Boston.

 _That_ settles her down quickly enough, and she sighs as she gets undressed and steps into the shower. _Cramped_ is hardly what she would call it – she doesn't doubt they'll end up in here together before their stay is up. Her fingers trail over the smooth tile wall, and she has to force herself to think of something else before she simply shuts off the water and walks out into the bedroom, secrets be damned.

Somehow, they make it down to the cast dinner. Emma meets more people than she thinks she'll ever be able to remember. She's thankful for Killian at her side, for his secure grip on her and almost absent-minded kisses against her cheek, her hair, wherever his lips fall.

They're both exhausted by the time they return to the room, a little drunk on scotch and jet lag. The earlier promise to put their bed to use flare to life in Emma's veins, but she can't stop yawning and neither can he.

Not to mention the nagging doubts that won't quiet in the back of her mind.

He offers her a tired grin across the bed at her visible exhaustion. "I'm rather tired myself," he says almost apologetically, rubbing at his eyes before pulling back the comforter.

She smiles wryly as they crawl into bed, him in his favorite pajama pants and her in his stolen T-shirt. "I can't believe how beat I am even though I slept on the plane."

"Sleep, love. We have plenty of time to enjoy this lovely bed together." He tucks her into his side, pressing a kiss to her hair and sighs, a soft noise of contentment she's grown to expect in the quiet moments like this.

"What, no goodnight kiss?" She pushes herself onto her elbow, his eyes popping open to glitter in the darkness. His lips curve easily as his fingers thread into her hair, the kiss sweet and slow before she settles back into his arms.

"Goodnight," he murmurs into the darkness, his voice already thick. He tugs her just a little bit closer and sleep comes easily.

The time change has them sleeping late, but Killian insists they get out of bed as soon as their eyes open. "We'll fall back asleep," is his explanation, and Emma isn't so sure what the problem with that is, but he's got an excited look about him.

With a yawn, she slides out of bed and stretches, eyeing him suspiciously. "Do you have something planned?"

"Aye." He grins, gently pushing her toward the bathroom. "Shower and dress, love. We only have today and tomorrow before the real work begins. I intend to spend these days with you."

An hour later, Emma finds herself happily bundled into a jacket and scarf, the late fall weather brisk this far north. The sun is shining, a rarity, she's told, so they wander around the historic city hand in hand. No one bothers them – if there _are_ fans in Inverness, they're not making themselves known. It's a far cry from Los Angeles, and Emma loves every minute of it.

"When the shoot is over, we should go away somewhere, just us," Killian says as they walk along an old cobblestoned street together. His arm is around her waist, holding her close, her body pressed to his.

"I was just thinking how nice this is," she admits glancing around at the people not paying any attention to them. "Is that…do you really want to do that? Won't there be things you have to do for the movie?"

He shrugs, brushing a kiss against her cheek. "Eventually. But right when we wrap, there should be a few weeks before any of that. We can go anywhere you like, love."

"Somewhere warm. A beach." There's a touch of wryness to her voice as she shivers in the breeze, pressing closer to his warmth. "You, sun, a beach. That's all I need."

She knows as soon as she says it how deeply she means it, and he must too, because he stops in the middle of the walkway, cups her cheeks in his palms, and kisses her like they're alone at home. "I love you so bloody much," he whispers as they break apart, and she knows he hasn't meant to say it by the widening of his eyes, hasn't meant to push, but there's still a flicker of doubt that keeps her from saying it back. Not about her feelings – she's certain enough of those now – but saying it to him is another matter.

"I know," she says softly, hoping it's enough for now, hoping that the kiss she offers in return tells him what she can't – that she's in this with him, and she's not good with emotional declarations, but she doesn't want anyone else. She _wants_ Killian.

If he's disappointed, he hides it well and they resume their wandering through town. Some of the shops are filled with tacky tourist fare, and they make each other laugh with silly T-shirts and other random junk. She's surprised when he ducks into a shop with a decidedly less tacky appearance, and she's more surprised to find it's the jewelry store they've passed a few times already.

"Killian…"

"Shush, Swan."

"You're not…"

"We've walked past this shop several times in our circles, and I've seen your eyes linger on the window display," he says quietly in her ear, his eyes roaming the cases. "And I want to."

Which is how she comes to be holding her hair up as he carefully closes the clasp of the necklace at the nape of her neck, pressing a kiss to the soft skin before she lets her hair fall back into place.

The pendant is long, the charm hanging nearly between her breasts, but she's rubbing her thumb over it now, the silver warming under her touch as she tries to control her emotions in front of the shopkeeper. She doesn't need to ask him why he stopped and purchased this for her, why he put it around her neck so tenderly – the anchor couldn't be any clearer.

She tugs him into an alley as they exit the shop, presses him back against the stone wall and kisses him with everything she's got. She doesn't care if someone sees them, if someone takes an awful picture with their cell phone and puts in the internet or tells Twitter their exact location – she just needs to kiss him.

"Perhaps I should buy you a trinket here or there more often," he jokes as they separate, but there's a breathlessness to his voice and a shiver runs down her spine that has nothing to do with the chilly weather. Her coat is still unbuttoned from the warmth of the shop, scarf unknotted, as his fingers leave her cheeks to trail down across her collarbones. He finds the pendant against her skin, slowly grazing over it though his eyes never leave hers.

"I know it's not just a trinket," she says as he toys with the charm, rolling it between his fingers.

"Aye." He drops the pendant back to her skin, his palm cupping her cheek as his fingers slide into her hair. "You do anchor me, Emma. You keep me on the path I should be on; you pull me back when I begin to drift."

She flushes, at a loss for words, but he kisses her, speaks her language with his arms wrapped around her and his lips against hers. There should be nothing romantic about kissing in an alley, but somehow he makes it so, his lips gentle with one hand in her hair and the thumb of the other stroking her cheek. His hand moves to her hip, draws her in closer as the kiss ends, his lips still hovering over hers as they breathe the same air. He smiles then, a contented, blissful smile as he brushes the hair out of her eyes.

"You'll catch cold," he says softly, his fingers toying with the ends of her scarf as he carefully winds it back around her, tucking the ends into her collar as he does up the buttons on her jacket. His eyes catch hers again as he finishes, smoothing the scarf into place with such tenderness Emma's throat tightens.

She almost says it, the thought racing through her mind. _I love you_. But she swallows the words she's known to be true for some time – if she says it, if she admits it and he turns his back on her, she won't survive. It won't be like Neal and Boston, where she had to stitch herself back together after gathering up the pieces – she'll simply shatter into fragments so small there will be no saving her.

Instead, she takes his hand, winds their fingers together and tugs him back out onto the street.

They eat dinner in a pub not far from the hotel, tucked into a corner with fish and chips and a few pints. He's easier here, more relaxed than she's ever seen him in LA, and she doesn't know if it's the city or the movie or maybe something else – _her?_ – that's doing it, but the almost lazy smile he wears is one of her favorites.

It's dark by the time they return to the hotel, dark and _cold_ , and Emma rubs her arms as they finally step out of the wind and into the lobby.

"Perhaps a fire tonight, love?"

"That would be nice." An odd mix of homesickness and nostalgia wash over her as she watches him kneel beside the fireplace. This has always been their thing, right from the first night they spent alone together. It's simple, and it's cozy, and it's _theirs_.

It doesn't take long for the fire to warm the bedroom, and they settle comfortably on the floor, his back leaned against the bedframe and Emma's pressed against his chest. She's stripped down to the tank top she wore beneath her layers of clothes, swapped her jeans for soft leggings, and finds herself quite content in his arms.

The firelight catches the silver of the anchor hanging from her neck, and she rubs her thumb over it absently, almost like a good luck charm. It's hard to believe all these months later that an impulsive over-priced mocha turned out to be the best decision she's ever made, that an afternoon in a coffee shop could change her life – make her feel truly _alive_ for the first time in years.

"Did you know that in the United Kingdom, all swans are owned by the Queen?" he says quietly, interrupting her thoughts. He traces his finger down the exposed skin of her shoulder, whisper soft kisses following his touch down the back of her shoulder.

She laughs, leaning back into his arms and trying to catch his eye. "What made you think of that?"

He shrugs, and she can feel the movement at her back, the thin shirt he's wearing doing little to hide the shift of muscle she knows so well. "There was a swan pendant in the shop as well, but the anchor seemed more fitting."

"I like the anchor."

"I'm glad of that." He presses a kiss to her hair, tightening his grip on her momentarily before pressing another kiss to her shoulder. "The Queen does not own all the anchors."

"She doesn't own me either way. No one does."

"Aye, Swan. But surely you must know I belong to you." The words are soft, filled with a confessional tone as he resumes the line of kisses across her shoulders.

She turns in his arms, kneeling between his sprawled legs as she looks down at him, those endless blue eyes filled with fire and love and _want_. "And I'm yours." It's not quite the words she's had floating in her mind all afternoon, but it's the closest she can get. She seals it with a kiss, something that starts gentle but quickly turns needy.

His arms envelop her, the fingers of one hand splayed between her shoulder blades while the other curls around her hip, tugs her closer. They've been here before, this _wanting_ place, and they've always stopped.

He's always stopped them.

In a rush of certainty, Emma suddenly doesn't care that she hasn't explained Boston. All her anxiety, all her worries, they suddenly seem so _pointless_. She doesn't know much about his past. She doesn't know, and it doesn't _matter_ , because there's nothing he could tell her that would change her mind about him. It doesn't matter who they were before they found each other – what they have together now, that's what matters.

So when he leans back against the bed frame, breathing ragged, she chases him. Her legs move without thought, knees settling on either side of his hips as she presses against him, dragging her nails lightly along the sides of his ribs as she pulls his shirt up. She's not in any rush, savoring every catch in his breath until she manages to get the shirt off him.

"Emma…" There's a familiar warning in his voice, gravelly and strained, but all she does is guide his hand to the hem of her shirt, a silent encouragement to strip off her top. He obliges her with a shaky breath, his fingers gliding over her skin as he kisses her, breaking apart only to pull the tank top over her head.

Their eyes meet, the shirt already forgotten somewhere on the floor with his. Her hands are on his shoulders, and she uses the leverage to pull herself close, her lips hovering over his in a tease until he closes the gap between them with a low groan.

She's reaching for the clasp of her bra when he stops her, his fingers gentle on her wrists but firm. "I need…"

"I need you," she cuts in without hesitation, her eyes locked on his, a blue abyss she could happily get lost in forever. "I don't know why it's taken me this long to get here, but I'm ready. I am so ready."

 _I love you_.

"Are you…" The question is swallowed in another kiss, and everything he's been holding back comes surging forward. He doesn't try to get up, but his breaths are short when they break apart. He's solid between her thighs, but his smile is somehow soft in spite of the lust raging in his eyes. "I have never wanted a woman quite like I want you, love."

She leans in, pausing just before their lips meet to take in the blue of his eyes, love and desire tangled together in their depths. This kiss is softer, sweeter, but by the end she can't stop the rock of her hips against his, a low moan escaping her as he turns his attention to her neck and shoulder, one finger running along the cup of her bra.

"Killian…" His name is swallowed in a gasp as he pushes one of the straps off her shoulder, dragging it with his teeth while his hands remain at her hips, gently guiding her subtle motion. "I…"

 _Tell him_.

She gets to her feet instead, holding her hand out.

Their eyes meet, but he doesn't take her hand immediately. Instead he runs his hands up her legs slowly until they settle on the rounded curve of her bottom. He nudges her forward, pressing a kiss at the apex of her thighs. The leggings are too thin to hide the heat of his mouth, and she can't swallow the gasp as he does it again, a soft kiss that does nothing but make the ache between her legs stronger.

"This...tonight, I have wanted for a very long time..." The words are muffled as he skims his nose along her hip, finally gathering his feet under him. He rises gracefully, his arms wrapping securely around her as he stands. "But surely you must know, my feelings for you wouldn't change if you weren't completely…"

"But I am." She slides her palms along his bare chest, smooth skin and coarse hair. "I'm not changing my mind."

She expects him to press her back to the bed then, to waste no time, but he doesn't. Not until he's kissed her thoroughly, touching her the entire time with the barest brush of his knuckles, does he lay her down on the bed and settle between her legs, propping himself on his elbows. He bends to place a kiss above her racing heart, his breath uneven as his thumb brushes over the pendant. "Do we need…"

"No, I've got that covered." She stares up at him in the firelight, running her fingers over his jaw. "Any more questions?" He shakes his head, brushing stray hairs away from her face, an awed expression playing across his features. "Then kiss me," she says softly, pulling him closer as her eyes slide shut.

She expects the desperate passion to start again, but she should know by now Killian likes to take his time. His lips linger against hers, but she wants _more_ , pressing her hips up against his to make her point. She can feel him against her thigh, knows he wants this as badly as she does, but his only reaction is a quiet chuckle. "Patience." His hand travels down her side, his thumb barely grazing her nipple through the thin fabric of her bra, but he's watching her as he does it, lust making his eyes bright. He smirks when her breath catches, and she's about to protest, but his lips descend on hers again. This time, it's more of what she wants, kisses that make her nails dig into his shoulders as his weight settles more fully on her.

"Enough patience," she manages to get out when they break apart, his hands wandering lower, but he only shakes his head, his tongue sweeping across a sensitive spot on her neck. "Dammit, Killian, I need…"

"Emma, love, you once informed me it was your turn. Right now, it is my turn." He presses another kiss to the hollow of her throat, lifts her just enough to unclasp her bra and drag it the rest of the way down her arms. "And I intend to see to it that you enjoy my turn as much as I do." He takes his sweet time removing it, his eyes devouring her hungrily. "When it is your turn…" He tosses the bra off the bed, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "When it is your turn you may be as impatient as you like. _I_ prefer to take my time."

She doesn't have the chance to argue before he's lowered his mouth to her breast. His lips and tongue move over her, his teeth occasional dragging across the sensitive skin, and what words do escape her are intelligible at best, her eyes closing as she arches against him.

"Emma…" Her name is a plea and a prayer, whispered over her skin as he moves down her body, his fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "You are bloody amazing." Her eyes snap open, locking onto his, fierce desire staring back at her. It's tempered with tenderness, and it's as though the floodgates have opened. She can feel every part of him – every muscle-hardened plane of his body – but it's not just that. Tonight Killian has found a way to tether their souls together, each kiss only pulling them closer. Every emotion running through him flows through her veins.

Where she stops and he begins, she may never know.

"That first day in Regina's office, I wanted to kiss you." The words have a confessional tone, but his lips are on hers, urgent and demanding, before she can answer. "You were beautiful and fierce, and I told Regina I didn't want you because I already knew I was done for. I wanted to have you right then and there," he says as he moves back to her neck, his tongue flicking against the shell of her ear.

"I doubt Regina would have…oh…" Her words die on her lips as he reaches for her, his hand slipping between their bodies to stroke the inside of her thigh over the thin leggings, never quite reaching where she needs him most.

"The morning you asked to touch me…" His words have grown thicker, lower the longer they go on, and these words trail off as he finally dances his fingers up her thigh. His touch is still maddeningly light, and Emma has to fight not to beg for more. Instead, her hand grips the comforter beneath her, twisting the fabric in her fingers as her breaths shorten. "I wished to refuse you, to counter your request with one of my own."

His hand moves away, and Emma sucks in a breath as he finds bare skin. She expects another kiss, but he instead calls her name softly, his eyes burning as she opens hers. "I wanted to touch _you_ that morning, love. Here…" His knuckles brush along the underside of her breasts as he dips back down to kiss her. "Here…" he mumbles against her skin, his hand moving again to the waistband of her leggings and slipping under the fabric. "But here, most of all," he says as he drags a finger through the damp heat between her legs.

"I wanted that, too," she manages to choke out, her eyes closing and her back arching at the slow torture of his touch, never quite enough pressure – not that it would take much at this point. The things he's saying to her, combined with the way his fingers dance along her body, already have her on the verge.

"What was it you wanted, darling? This?" He presses firmly this time as he moves his hand over her, the tip of one finger dipping inside her as a groan of his own spills over. "Is this how you imagined it would be?"

"Killian, _please_."

She opens her eyes long enough to see him lick his lips, his eyes nearly black with desire as he shifts his thumb, holding her gaze captive as he gives her just what she needs to see stars.

Her body still humming with release, she struggles to sit up, every muscle in her body trembling as she reaches for his jeans, her fingers clumsy with fire in her veins as she nudges him onto his back. "I think it's my turn now," she whispers in his ear, biting down softly before bringing her lips to his again.

"You are going to be the bloody death of me, love." His voice is raw hunger – he sounds wrecked already in spite of the fact that she's barely touched him. A shiver of anticipation runs through her at what's yet to come.

Her hands shake as she finally manages to unfasten his damn pants, and she should just push them off his hips, but she wants to see his face when she does this for the first time. He stopped them that morning, before she could do what she really wanted.

He doesn't try to stop her this time.

He curses again as she sits up, tugging his underwear down just enough to free him. His eyes close before she even touches him, his fingers gripping the comforter just as they did that morning. Emma smiles to herself at the sight, knowing this night is going to end much differently.

She uses one hand to hold the fabric out of the way as her other hand wraps around him, her grip firm. His gasp is satisfying all on its own, but the way his eyes squeeze shut just a little tighter, his lips barely parted as she circles her thumb, that's enough to send a rush of heat straight between her legs, achingly aware of the throbbing of her pulse. It's a shock to find her body responding so quickly again in spite of the tendrils of pleasure still running through her, but she's known for a long time being with Killian would be different.

"This is what _I_ wanted that morning," she whispers as she bends to kiss him, tightening her grip ever so slightly. He lets loose another strangled stream of curses as the kiss ends, and Emma should argue – _it's_ _her turn, dammit_ – but he's rolled them effortlessly, his kisses once again needy. He pulls back abruptly, swearing under his breath as he stands and gives the remainder of his clothes a sharp yank. Emma watches him undress with her heart pounding; she suddenly has a very good idea of what her little show beside the pool did to him all those weeks ago.

She's seen plenty of him in the months they've lived together, the way his pajama pants sit indecently low on his hips, his constant disregard of a shirt, but the sight of him bare before her is something else entirely. Her eyes roam over him, taking in the lean muscle and soft skin, the dark line of hair that travels down, down, down...

Impatient once more, she reaches for the waistband of her leggings, but he stops her, his fingers curling around her wrist as he resumes his spot between her legs with a hint of his usual smirk. He brings her hand to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist before guiding it back to the bed. "Allow me." His words burn with promise, a sure sign he has no intention of removing her remaining clothes with the efficiency he disposed of his own.

It's maddening, the way he strokes her hips, her thighs, his lips and tongue following. He hooks his fingers around the elastic waist, but he only moves it down a few inches, kissing her exposed hip as though they've got all the time in the world – as though every brush of his lips isn't a brand on her skin.

He repeats the process down the length of her legs, a frenzy building in her blood with every scrape of his scruff against her skin, every caress of his lips and the damp heat of his tongue pushing her further toward the edge. It's only once he's tossed her clothes to the floor with the rest that he turns his eyes back to her, the raw heat in his expression making her thighs clench.

He runs his finger up the inside of her thigh, watching her. "I wanted to do this the day you kissed me in the pool. Bloody hell, I wanted to do this every time I woke up with you in my arms." The words are tight with barely-restrained control as he locks his gaze on her. He presses first one finger, then two inside of her, curling just enough to draw another gasp from her, and he could burn her to the ground with the fire in his eyes.

The connection between them hums with electricity, but it's more than simple lust in his eyes as he drinks her in, more than physical pleasure as her heart pounds against her ribs. The graze of his knuckles across her skin says more than she's had in entire relationships before him, and while she is practically shaking with anticipation, it's never been about just sex.

Even if she'd let him take her to bed that first night so many months ago, it wouldn't have been just about sex.

His touch softens, not quite teasing, but not quite working toward anything either. "You're so bloody beautiful," he says, his voice quiet for a moment as their eyes meet again. "God, Emma, the things you do to me."

The heat flares again as his movements grow more purposeful, a moan falling from her lips as her eyes close, her hips pushing against his hand, craving more – more of his words that make it hard to breathe, more of his lips on hers, more of the passion that's been simmering between them for months finally boiling over.

"I thought of you often, love, like this." His voice is hoarse, the words coming between pants. "Being with you, the sight of your body flushed with desire…" He doesn't stop stroking her as he draws one breast into his mouth, scraping his teeth against her skin in a move that makes her arch against him. "As pleasureable as those moments in the shower were…"

"Me too." She should be embarrassed, but it's the furthest thing from her mind as his fingers move inside her, so much better than her own attempts to find release. The look on his face alone is worth the confession as she opens her eyes, her breaths heavy as he winds her tighter.

"You thought of pleasuring yourself?"

"I thought of you while I was in the shower...or alone in bed...taking care of myself."

He curses, his eyes darkening just before his lips descend on hers in another demanding kiss. Emma can't hold back anymore as he adds the firm press of his thumb, her body so thoroughly coiled that the simple graze undoes her. Pleasure races through her veins as her hips lift off the bed, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as a gasp escapes her.

He strokes her as she comes down from the high, drawing the pleasure out with a light touch as he shifts his weight over her. The heat of him between her legs makes her eyes pop open, her fingers tangling in his hair. This kiss is slow, Emma's lips curving into a smile as it continues, one hand settling on his hip. Her thoughts are hazy, content and safe in his arms, enjoying his weight and bare skin against hers, his gentleness even as the low burn in her belly begins all over again.

"You're certain?" he asks once more as they break apart, a flicker of concern in his eyes as he brushes the hair off her forehead.

The question stuns her, that he would even ask such a thing – that he could think for a second she would be capable of letting him out of her arms now. "Positive. I'm yours," she whispers back, her palm against his jaw as she stretches to kiss him again, her fingers curling around his hip to encourage him.

Their lips are still moving together as he enters her, a mutual groan breaking the kiss. The sound of her name falling from his lips is a turn on in of itself, but the way he lets loose a growled curse as her body pulls him in, _that_ makes her heart race. He moves slowly at first, but his arms shake where he's braced himself above her, and she can see the remnants of control in his furrowed brows. He's waited so long for this, and still, he's making it about her.

"Killian, let go." His eyes pop open to stare down at her, and she pushes her hips back against his, harder.

"Bloody hell, Emma. You're killing me, love." He doesn't change his pace, but his thrusts send him deeper, Emma's breaths catching each time he rubs against her. "But it will be a mighty fine death," he murmurs in her ear, burying his face in her hair.

Every inch of their bodies touches as he moves inside of her, the fit of his body with hers like coming home. She grabs onto his shoulder, something safe in the powerful muscles flexing beneath her palm. She knows he's already as close as he can get, but she tightens her hand on his hip anyway, pulling as he pushes. She needs more of him, more of the taste of his skin and the sound of his ragged breaths in her ear – more of this haze of pleasure and love. The words rise on the tip of her tongue, but then he shifts, finds that spot that makes her unable to think, let alone speak.

But he's always been better with words.

He doesn't stop moving, but he pulls his face free from her hair, his mouth hovering above hers. "I love you so bloody much," he whispers right before their lips meet. The kiss is slow, almost lazy if not for the purposeful movement of his hips. It goes on and on, the slow coiling of the tension in her belly, his lips capturing hers.

Her nails dig into his shoulder as he buries his face in her neck again, the snap of his hips speeding up, hers pushing back. His gasps are hot against her skin as they reach the edge, tumbling over together with low moans.

He doesn't move at first, Emma's grip on his shoulder loosening, turning to languid strokes along his slick skin. She catches her breath, boneless and sated, enjoying the tickle of his hair against her cheek, the certainty that her fears were for nothing – if she could stay in this moment with him forever, she would.

"That was…"

"Bloody fantastic." He grins, mischief in his eyes as he pushes up on his elbows, his nose bumping against hers right before he kisses her, a lazy, contented kiss. " _You_ are bloody fantastic." His lips trail over her face, lips brushing against her brow, her cheek, her jaw before he leans back to look at her. "You are everything to me, Emma." His expression is more serious as they separate, eyes swimming with love and tenderness, but most of all, deep satisfaction, the glow of having her return his desires obvious.

 _I love you_.

She opens her mouth to say it, to put the final knot in the ties that bind them, but he's kissing her again, gentle kisses of a man well-satisfied, and by the time he's rolled them over, she's lost her nerve.

Instead she snuggles closer as he tucks her against his chest, kissing her hair. "I will keep you by my side as long as you'll have me," he murmurs, already half-asleep as Emma presses a light kiss against his chest, breathing in the scent of him.

His breaths even out as sleep pulls him under. Emma lies awake, listening to the beat of his heart beneath her ear and reveling in the pleasure of the night, the glow of his skin in the fire, the love in his eyes as he moved within her – the certain knowledge that when he says he loves her, he means it like no one else in her life ever has.

"I love you, too," she whispers against his skin just before sleep takes her.

* * *

 **This chapter...this chapter has been the bane of my existence practically since I decided to write this fic. Those of you who have read most of my other work know I'm not usually a smut writer - it's impossibly hard to get right. It took A LOT of work to get it here, and I couldn't have done it without onceuponsomechaos who pushed and pushed and pushed (no matter how pissed I got) until we ended up here - which is hopefully an appropriately hot culmination of the months of UST between these two ;) Please feel free to tell me if it met your expectations!**


	18. Chapter 18

Killian floats toward waking, a profound contentment permeating his entire body. He drifts on the cusp of a dream, Emma's body pliant as he tightens his grip on her thigh until his brain suddenly catches up – the bare skin under his palm is no dream.

His eyes blink open in the dark room, the barest glow emanating from the fire's embers. It's just enough light to make Emma's hair shimmer, her pale skin bright where the sheets have slipped to her waist.

Her body is snug against his, his fingers curled just beneath her breast. Waking up to Emma in his arms has always been a treat, but this, the silk of her skin without anything separating them, this is heaven.

His nose skims along her throat, memories nearly overwhelming him – Emma's eyes filled with love, the soft noises his body drew from hers. All this wanting between them, and still, it was far from the explosion of lust it could have been.

Perhaps the most satisfying part is just that – Emma didn't retreat from the softness, from holding his gaze while he moved inside her. It's never been about just physical pleasure with them, and he's known that for a long time.

To have Emma accept it is another matter entirely.

She loves him. She hasn't said it, not the three precious words, but he's a patient man. He saw the emotion in her eyes, felt it in the tender brush of her fingers – he can wait until she's ready to say it. It's enough to have her, to know she's as much his as he is hers.

To know that in another two months, the supposed end of their year together is just another date on the calendar, not a looming separation he's fighting against.

But one memory leads to another, her warm body nestled against his doing nothing to prevent him from growing hard again. His hand wanders, fingers dancing along her curves while his tongue darts out, tastes the salt of her skin. She never took off the pendant, and his thumb grazes the anchor.

He wants to give her so much more than a simple charm pendant.

"Mmmm…" Emma stirs, the noise halfway to a sigh of pleasure. He's not entirely sure if she's awake until she presses her hips back against his arousal, her fingers reaching to grip his leg and pull the line of her body flush with his. He buries his face in her neck, not bothering to stifle the low groan of pleasure her movement produces. "That's nice," she mumbles, voice thick with sleep as he draws idle patterns over her ribs.

"Aye." He runs his hand over the curve of her hip, stroking her thigh before retracing his path, the sharp inhale of her breath each time he hits a sensitive spot bringing a satisfied smile to his lips.

She twists her neck, her fingers moving to curl around his cheek as she draws him into a gentle kiss. He feels her gasp against his lips more than he hears it as he reaches between her legs, surprised to find her more than ready for him. Her kisses grow hungrier as he strokes her, every one of her quiet moans an encouragement he doesn't need, but drinks in greedily. Hearing her come apart is nearly enough to undo him then and there.

She's still trembling from that first high as he shifts, his hand gripping her thigh to nudge her leg forward. It only takes a tilt of his hips to slide into the damp heat waiting, Emma arching against him with a sleepy mumbling of his name.

He stills, savoring the moment, the ability to wake with Emma in his arms and bury himself inside her as he's ached to for months – to have her respond so instantly in spite of them both being half-asleep.

 _Bloody hell she feels amazing._

 _And she's mine_.

He breathes her in, capturing her lips in a possessive kiss as he tilts his hips. She sighs as he begins to move, her head falling back on the pillow, blonde locks spilling over his arm. His hand leaves her thigh, exploring every curve, dip and valley he finds. His other arm curls beneath the pillow, reaching to brush his fingers through her hair as his eyes devour her. The sheet has fallen away completely, her body open to him and her lips parted. She's a beautiful woman, aye, but the trust and vulnerability of the intimate position is what makes his chest tight even as pleasure builds in his veins.

He wouldn't change a thing about their first time together, but there's something far deeper about this moment in the dark, their kisses unhurried as they move together. This is a simple blessing, to wake beside her, kiss her and touch her – to find she wants him as badly as he wants her in the middle of the night.

He releases her hair to twine their fingers together, the palm of his other hand over her heart keeping her snug against him. She breathes out his name in a sound that's half pleasure and half pleading, and _bloody hell_ , the way she says his name... He slides his hand down her ribs, over her belly, grasping for what little control he has left as his fingers press down.

"Killian!" Her fingers crush his as she tumbles over the edge for a second time.

He leans his forehead against her shoulder, struggling for breath as he follows with a growled curse, their entwined fingers clutching each other tightly as they ride it out together. Emma's free hand reaches back, fingers threading into his hair and tugging until their lips meet again in a breathless kiss, as though she's just as desperate to hold onto this moment as he is.

Emma's head falls back against the pillow, and his lips curve in a satisfied grin at her still ragged breaths, her grip on his hair loosening to a gentle caress as his lips brush her shoulder. He hasn't stopped moving completely, the slow drag of their bodies against one another drawing out the high until she's boneless in his arms and every muscle in his body feels deliciously spent.

As soon as he withdraws from her, she rolls back toward him without prompting. Her legs tangle with his as her palm runs up his chest and over his shoulder before settling against his jaw, her kiss sweet.

"Sleep, love," he whispers, easing one arm under his pillow even as the other curls protectively around her. She mumbles something against his skin, the words lost in a haze of sleep as she nuzzles closer, her lips brushing against his chest in a tender gesture that says more than words.

He'll never fully understand how the universe saw fit to deliver her into his life, never mind that she would come to care for him as she does. Emma is a gift he must never take for granted.

* * *

Emma wakes to Killian's fingers combing through her hair, a sleepy smile on his face as she blinks up at him from where she's tucked against his chest. He chuckles, a low, content noise as she simply snuggles in closer with a hum.

"Have you been watching me sleep? It's creepy," she mutters into his skin, closing her eyes again and breathing in the scent of him.

"Haven't been awake long, love."

"Mmm. I had the most amazing dream," she says, opening her eyes to stare at him with a wide, innocent expression, her lips twitching into a teasing smile. "There was this really hot guy in my bed, and he woke me up in the middle of the night just so he could have his way with me."

"Did he now?" Killian plays along, bending to brush his lips against hers, eyes dancing. "He sounds like a cheeky fellow." His fingers trail down her spine before his touch grows firm, tugging her closer. "I shall have to take lessons from him. I find myself quite worn out."

Her fingers find their own path, wandering down his stomach, grazing his hip and traveling lower, drawing a hiss from him and a smirk from her. "Worn out?" she asks with a raised brow, picking her head up to watch his face as she finds her target. "It doesn't seem that way to…"

The words are lost in a kiss as he flips her onto her back, and the laughter dies in her throat as his kisses grow more demanding, his touches more determined. "I will never have enough of you," he murmurs against her lips, his hand on her thigh gently pushing her legs wider to make room for him.

"Never is a…oh…" Her eyes close and she gives herself over to it, to the rhythm of his body and hers. It starts slowly, half-asleep and languid until Emma finds herself above him, watching his expression shift as she moves. She never did take the anchor pendant off last night, and she doesn't miss the way his eyes fix on it, hanging between her breasts, swaying with her.

His eyes darken, and in one swift movement, he has her on her back, the gentleness of the morning broken by his devouring kiss. The morning tilts on its axis, Killian's touch turning hungry, his hips snapping against hers to drive into her with reckless abandon.

She knew when she whispered _let go_ last night he hadn't fully listened, hadn't really given up his careful control. This morning is different, and Emma's lips curl into a smile against his as she digs her nails into his shoulders, and much like that first brutal kiss, gives as good as she gets.

She wouldn't change a thing about last night, the slowness and the passion of his emotions in every touch. But there's something undeniably attractive about Killian like this, laying claim to her without restraint. His fingers snake around her wrists, tugging her hands off his shoulders and pressing them back into the mattress by her head, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tightly. His breaths are harsh against her skin when his lips aren't on hers, savage kisses that leave her feeling branded.

"Tell me, love, would you be terribly disappointed if we did no sightseeing today?" he asks as they lay together in the tangle of sheets, the comforter somewhere on the floor. He's barely caught his breath, his voice hoarse in spite of the playful question. He's trailing the back of his knuckles along her spine, an almost lazy touch that's all the more gentle for its stark contrast of their roughness only moments earlier.

She gives an exaggerated sigh, folding her hands under her chin to lay on his chest, tighten her leg thrown over his. She can feel his racing heartbeat under her palm "Oh, very disappointed. You'll have to make it up to me," she says solemnly.

"And how shall I do that?"

"Well…" She grins, pretending to think about it. He's got her on her back again before she manages to get a thought out, but the ringing of his phone breaks their kiss.

"Ignore it." He skims his nose along her collarbones, nipping lightly. "Whoever it is can wait until tomorrow."

She hums her agreement, happy to close her eyes and float along on the cloud of bliss and pleasure the bed has turned into. He's softer now without the almost desperate edge to his movements, no heat in the brush of his lips against her skin or the glide of his fingertips – his touch is all cozy contentment as she nuzzles closer.

But not even a minute later, the ringing starts again. "Bloody hell," he grumbles, reaching blindly for the phone on the nightstand. She braces herself for whatever irritated greeting he chooses, but he simply glares at the thing, pushing a button until the noise ceases. "It's on silent. Regina can wait," he explains, setting the phone down and reaching for her again. "I have no desire to share you with the world today." His fingers tangle in her hair as he returns to her side, as though it's difficult for him to stop touching her.

It's a sensation she knows well. In the morning's light, she doesn't know why she waited so long for this – being with Killian last night, this morning, it only makes her feel everything more deeply. There's no place she'd rather be than in his arms.

"Killian, I…"

The hotel phone on the nightstand starts ringing before she can say it, her heart pounding as the words make their way to the tip of her tongue. She sighs, shooting him a rueful grin without finishing her sentence. This isn't something she wants to say while he's distracted – she knows what it will mean to him to hear it.

Her mood shifts as he glares at the phone like it's come to deliver him to hell itself. "Just answer it," she says with a laugh, giving him a light shove toward the edge of the bed. There's something adorable about the petulant pout on his face, very much put out by the interruption. "You know she's just going to keep calling."

She lays back against the pillows, admiring the view he presents as he stretches across the bed for the phone. The sheet slips away from his body as he reaches, revealing him in all his glory while Emma smiles to herself. How did she ever manage to resist this man?

"What?" he barks into the phone, brows furrowed as he runs his hand through his hair in agitation. It's already sticking out every which way thanks to her, but he just makes it worse. He flops back against the pillows with the phone to his ear, his jaw tight as he glares at the ceiling.

Emma scoots across the bed, missing the press of his skin against hers even just for the time it takes him to deal with the phone call. His expression softens as he pulls their twined hands to his mouth, his lips gentle on her skin despite his aggravated tone.

"No, I have not checked my phone! I'm bloody busy."

She hides her smile with a kiss to his shoulder, her cheeks warming as she remembers just how _busy_ they've been. He releases her fingers, instead wrapping his arm around her to keep her snug at his side while he listens to Regina.

The last thing she expects is for Killian to suddenly sit bolt upright, his arm around her shoulder dropping away instantly. "Gold published _what_?"

Every muscle in his body is suddenly tense, and she watches his face with a growing sense of unease. There's too many emotions to follow, but the ones she can pick out aren't good – rage, betrayal, worry, and something else, something dark and terrifying.

He hangs up the phone without another word, turning to her with storm clouds in his eyes. "I am going to ask you a question, and you are going to tell me the bloody truth." His voice shakes with barely controlled anger, and Emma pushes away from him without meaning to, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Killian, what did Regina say?"

"Do you or do you not have a son you have never told me about?"

She can't breathe with the shock of it, and she should get out of the bed, put on some clothes, put some distance between them, but she can't believe this is happening – and that it's happening _now_ , when they've just…and she's given him a piece of her _soul_.

"Emma, I require an answer." His voice has gone cold, and when she looks back at him, she barely recognizes the man she's spent these last ten months with. She's never seen him angry like this, but what's worse is the betrayal all over his face.

"Yes," she whispers, drawing the sheet up around her body protectively. She doesn't ask how he knows – it's clicked in one horrifying moment of clarity. Gold, the paparazzi guy whose wife he slept with, the one who hates him – Killian asked what he _published_. Somehow Gold has gotten a hold of her past and he's splashed it all over the tabloids.

"Bloody hell, Emma. We said no fucking lies. I have _never_ lied to you!" He's the one who gets out of the bed, fishes his jeans off the floor and pulls them on angrily, turning back to her. "How could you not tell me? You _had_ to know someone would find out."

"Regina said she buried it!"

"Regina said...she knew this entire bloody time? _She_ knew but you never thought to tell me?"

"You never asked!" She's pulling on her own clothes, and the longer she sees that expression on the face, the more her hackles rise. She should have told him – she knows that – but she never _lied_ to him.

"Of course I never bloody asked! Why the hell would I ask if you had a child you've never told me of?"

"I was going to tell you," she snaps back, yanking her sweater over her head and glaring at him. "The day you got the role. That's what I was thinking about on the patio. Telling you. Because after that day at the ranch, things _changed_ between us. God dammit, Killian, I _wanted_ to tell you, but you were so happy about the movie and I just…" She trails off helplessly, wiping angrily at the tears pouring down her cheeks.

She's angry and she's hurt and she _needs_ him to stop looking at her like that.

"That was six weeks ago!"

"And you've told me all of your secrets?" Her temper is rising again, barreling over the hurt and the shame and the guilt. "I never asked, Killian! I waited for you to tell me on your own time, because whatever you've done before, you're not that person anymore. It doesn't _matter_ what happened or didn't happen. It doesn't change how I see you or how I feel about you!."

"This isn't an ex you've neglected to provide me the details on. This is a _child_."

"Did Regina tell you all of it? That I had him in jail, one arm handcuffed to the bed like I might somehow break loose while a human being tore his way out of my body? That I gave that kid up the day he was born? I never even _held_ him." The tears are coming faster now, the old wound ripping open like it was yesterday. "You know _nothing_ about my life before you. You think that apartment was bad? You don't know what I've done to survive. You and your successful career and millions of dollars – you don't _know._ " She's choking on the words and tears, and she wants to hit him and she wants to kiss him, and she wants this nightmare to be over.

He doesn't say anything, and that's worse, because his face has slowly becomes an unreadable mask. She watches helplessly as he pulls on a shirt, shoves boots on his feet and heads for the bedroom door. "I need some air," is all he says before she hears the slamming of the hotel room's door behind him.

Emma sags back against the wall, the tears coming in earnest now. She can't even look at the bed where not ten minutes earlier, she was happy and content and couldn't believe that this man could feel the way he does about her.

The way he says he does.

Because when it's come down to it, he's walked out like everyone else. Things get hard, and he's gone. She could have handled his anger, his hurt – she could have handled yelling and slammed doors. But the cold mask on his face as he walked away from her, that sends a thousand tiny splinters into her heart.

Emma tries to call him, but he doesn't answer and she doesn't have anything left to say to his voicemail after the first message. She tries to convince herself he's not walking away at the first sign of trouble – he said he needed some air – but an hour goes by and he hasn't returned.

The longer he's gone, the louder her thoughts become. This was a mistake. All of it. The job, the promise of a huge payday and a ticket out of her old life, it's all been one great big lie. This isn't a fairytale. Emma has taken care of herself her entire life, and the minute she forgot that she was the one responsible for her fate, the minute she gave a piece of her heart away, it blew up in her face. There is no one in this world who is going to save her – she has to save herself.

Killian made her forget that fact.

She wasn't supposed to be in this place again, alone and heartbroken, tears pouring down her face for a man who couldn't be bothered to stick around. The fact that she loves him isn't enough – _she_ isn't enough.

It doesn't take long to pack her things. She's barely unpacked them to start. She hardly remembers zipping her suitcases, wheeling them behind her on her way out of the hotel. She gets into the first cab she sees, goes to the airport, and uses his credit card one final time to book herself on the first plane back to Los Angeles. It's good to have a plan, to focus her mind on tasks rather than the cracks in her calm facade threatening to burst.

She'll go to his house, get her things from the garage. That will be step one. When she's done with that, she'll find out what's become of her son. She won't let the media circus sure to follow her breakup with Killian affect the boy – the way she sees it, this is the universe giving her a second chance. If Gold published a story about her son, he knows where the boy is.

Maybe she can be a better mother than she is a person. She's older now. She can, she _should,_ do this. Maybe if she hadn't run away from her responsibilities in the first place, she wouldn't be in this mess she's in now.

She's running away again, but this is different, because she doesn't owe Killian anything. It was a business transaction she got too caught up in. She fell in love with him, and now she's going to pay the price of believing in a fantasy.

He says he loves her, but he ran too.

* * *

Only, Killian doesn't run – he walks. He's not even sure where he's walking when he leaves the hotel, only that he has to put some distance between them. He's too hurt, too angry to be in the room with her. How could she not tell him she had a _child_?

Milah never told him she had a child or a husband. Milah didn't tell him a lot of things, and in the end, the woman nearly destroyed him.

What _else_ is Emma Swan hiding? Does she even care for him? He's told her he loves her, and he swears he's seen it in her eyes that she loves him, too, but she's never once said the words. Even last night, amidst the intimacy not just of their bodies, but in the quiet moments in between, she never said a word of love.

Killian isn't naïve enough to think sex equates love. He's had plenty of nights with women he hasn't cared about in the least. But he _felt_ it – it was different with Emma last night. It wasn't just sex. It's never been _just_ sex with them.

It's a feeling he never had with Milah – there's quite a bit about his relationship with Emma he never had with Milah. Emma's care for him was more heartfelt, more genuine, from the first day he met her than Milah's ever was.

 _Emma is not Milah._

He walks in circles with no concept of time, numb to the cold as he debates going into any of the pubs he passes for a drink. But no amount of liquor in this city can change one simple fact – he shouldn't have walked out on her as he did. He owes it to her to hear her out, to find a way past this together.

He chafes his freezing hands together, running through the possible ways he should apologize. He's not entirely wrong for being upset she didn't tell him about her past, but he didn't handle it well either. He loves her – this doesn't change that.

 _I never asked, Killian! I waited for you to tell me on your own time, because whatever you've done before, you're not that person anymore. It doesn't matter what happened or didn't happen. It doesn't change how I see you._

Her words echo in his mind as he trudges down the hall toward their room, feeling worse and worse the more he thinks about it. Emma hasn't said the three words he _wants_ to hear, but what she said to him this morning might as well have been the same thing.

Because on some level, she _knows_ he's done things he's not proud of. He remembers their first meeting in Regina's office, winces when he thinks about the drunken fool he was, but she's looked past it. And she's right – she's _never_ asked.

And because she's never asked, she doesn't know – doesn't know about Milah and the lies that broke his heart. She never could have guessed that keeping this thing from him, this _particular_ truth, would set him off like it did.

She also didn't deserve it.

"Emma?" he calls out as he enters the room, frowning at the silence. "Emma, love are you here?" There's no answer, and he curses, turning back to the door. She won't have gone far, and there's only one other person she's close with.

He hurries down the hall, his fist colliding with David's door as his stomach begins to churn, an uneasiness he can't deny clawing at his throat.

David flings the door open, his brows furrowed and gaze full of irritation until he realizes Killian is the one banging on his door like the world is about to end. "Hey, man, are you all right?"

"Is Emma here?" he asks without preamble, craning his neck to attempt to see into the room.

"No." David frowns, opening the door wider and gesturing Killian through. "What's going on? Did something happen?"

"We...had a disagreement and now I can't find her."

"Maybe she went out for awhile to clear her head. Mary Margaret does that sometimes when I piss her off."

"Mate, this was…" Killian scrubs his palms over his face, turning to his friend wearily. "I need to find her."

"Do you think maybe she went to another hotel?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. If I did, I wouldn't be here with you."

"Well, pull out your phone and check your credit card app. If she got another room, you'll see it in the recent charges and know where she is. Give her a few hours to cool off, and then you can go over there and apologize for whatever stupid thing you said to her." David grins, nudging him with his elbow. "You guys are a real couple now, fights and all."

Killian ignores him, searching the pockets of his jeans for his phone. He curses as he realizes the phone is nowhere on him, that he must have left it in the room. If Emma tried to call him…

"I have to go." Without offering further explanation, he turns for the door, ignoring David's questions at his back.

All this time, he assumed his phone hadn't rung because she didn't want to talk to him – but now, now he's terrified she's been trying to reach him, that she thinks he's ignoring her.

Emma's heart is a fragile, precious thing. He's supposed to be the one protecting it, but what if he's the one who has broken it this time?

He notices her shoes aren't by the door when he enters the room this time, and he knows it before he gets to the bedroom – he just doesn't want to admit it to himself.

She's gone. Her clothes, her shoes, her toothbrush – gone. The only thing left is a crumpled pile of silver on the nightstand, the light reflecting off the silver anchor like the final flicker of a candle guttering out.

Killian sinks down on the edge of the bed in shock, the sheets still tangled from their evening. His hand runs absently over her pillow, pain lancing through him as he remembers the way her hair spilled back over that pillow, the soft, dreamy expression on her face as he kissed her – and the way it all shattered this morning in a fit of temper.

Temper. Phone. Emma.

He snaps out of his despair, his hands frantically moving over the bed in an attempt to locate the damn phone he came in here for. He's about to start pulling the pillows out of their cases when he hears the thud of something hitting the floor.

He snatches it up, dismayed to see four missed calls, all from Emma. He presses the call button frantically, praying she answers, that this is all one awful misunderstanding. They can get through this – he's angry, but it doesn't mean he loves her any less. Surely, she has to to know that.

Her phone goes straight to voicemail.

"Bloody hell, Swan," he curses as he hangs up, not bothering to leave a message. Nothing he has to say to her should be left on voicemail. He needs to see her.

She can't have gone far, he rationalizes. Inverness isn't that large of a city and it's barely been two hours. Perhaps she also needed some time to cool off – the pile of silver on the nightstand would indicate otherwise, but he's clinging to hope here – and has checked herself into another room, or another hotel as David suggested.

Pacing, he pulls up the credit card app, scrolls to recent charges and feels his heart drop to the floor. There's an authorization from an airline not ten minutes old. She's not just gone to another room or another hotel – she's bloody leaving Scotland all together.

Not if he can help it.

He wastes no time, turning for the door, determined to get to the airport and stop her. It takes time to check a bag, to board a flight, and there aren't many planes in and out of Inverness. It's not a massive airport – he says a small prayer of thanks they're not in London, that she can't hop a flight to anywhere in a moment's notice – so he's got a good chance of finding her before it's too late.

He'll explain, about Milah and the lies. He'll apologize for his poor reaction. He'll listen, whether she wants to tell him the whole story or she wants to tell him he's a bloody idiot. Because the longer he thinks about it, the longer he realizes Emma has left and appears to have no intention of coming back, the more he realizes he's not even angry – he's just hurt.

Flinging the door open, he nearly slams into the last person he expects to find, her fist poised to knock and eyes wide with surprise.

* * *

 **I think most of you (suspected) knew something like this was coming, but stick with me. It's worth it.**

 **Many many thanks to onceuponsomechaos for the always fantastic beta duties in spite of kid and firework wrangling over the holiday weekend.**


	19. Chapter 19

It's a rare sight for his manager to look surprised, but it barely registers as Killian tries to shove past her.

"Out of my way, Regina."

"Afraid not." She sighs, gesturing to the interior of the room. "The paparazzi are already arriving from London. There are about fifteen of them outside the lobby. We need to handle this. Where's Miss Swan? You hung up rather quickly this morning, but I assume you two have had a chance to talk. I trust she provided you the necessary details?"

He winces, widening the door and allowing her to enter before leaning back heavily against the wall. "Emma is gone," he says, his voice low and hoarse. "She purchased a plane ticket ten minutes ago. I have to go after her. I need your help, Regina. There has to be a back exit to this place, a way out."

His words are frantic, his mind still processing the morning's events. He can't believe she's gone. It's not real – this awful, aching hole in his chest can't be real. Two hours ago, he had everything he ever wanted. Emma. The movie role that would change his career. Security. A home.

Love.

And of all the people to shatter his world, it just had to be that slimy bastard Gold. Who knows how long the crocodile had been hoarding Emma's secrets, waiting for the absolute worst moment to slink out of the mud and strike.

Thinking of Gold makes his temper flare again. Gold won't win this time. Killian won't be that man again – that man that broke, that turned to liquor and anything else he could get his hands on for a distraction. He's a better man now – he won't give Emma up without a fight.

He just needs Regina to get out of the way.

"She's gone?" Regina's eyebrow lifts in disbelief, her eyes scanning the room, though she doesn't step any further into it. Instead she remains at the door, feet firmly planted in a clear message she has no intention of moving. "But her year isn't up. She's in breach of contract."

"I don't give a bloody damn about the sodding contract," he snaps, rapidly approaching the end of his rope. "She's _gone_. I have to go after her. Last night…"

Regina's eyes narrow, and she sighs again with impatience. "I told you not to get involved with this woman, Jones." She shakes her head at him like he's been a naughty child, and he nearly shoves her aside and walks out right then.

He opens his mouth to argue, but he stops suddenly, vague suspicion turning to rage. "Did you have something to do with this? So help me god, if you gave that bloody crocodile Emma's secrets in order to drive her away…"

"I did no such thing." She pushes her hair back off her face and meets his gaze head on, irritation flickering in her hard eyes. "I'm many things, but be logical for a moment. I have always had your best interests in mind. A scandal does you no favors right now. There's a reason Emma wasn't dismissed immediately when you got the role. A breakup right before the movie's premiere would have focused the attention on you at the right time. This?" She shrugs, holding her hands up in a pose of innocence. "Even if I wanted to reveal Emma's secrets to the world to drive her away, Gold is the last person on earth I'd go to with the story. This isn't my doing."

"Then you must help me. I _need_ her. I…"

"Here's the problem," she cuts in, her cool tone returning. "You leave now, _you're_ in breach of contract. You can't go after her. Not only will you lose this role, you'll be sued. You won't work in this business again. Not after everything you pulled last year. This is your last chance. Don't blow it over a blonde."

"She isn't just some bloody blonde! If I can get to the airport in time, I can stop her from getting on the plane. I _need_ to stop her!"

"How do you even know she's still there?" Regina demands, throwing up her hands in frustration. "You walk out that door looking like that and it's all over the tabloids in hours. And Gold wins. Do you want to let that bastard win?"

"No! But this is a waste of bloody time! I need to go–"

"What airline?" Regina holds up her phone, waiting for an answer.

"Why?"

"Because we can check the flight schedules from here. If you can make it to the airport before she's gone, I will help you. Her leaving won't do you any public relations favors. But if she's gone, you will stay here. We will figure out a statement and a course of action that doesn't undo all the work you've done." Her face softens, and for just a second, he thinks he sees a hint of sympathy. "She's not worth throwing away everything you've worked so hard for."

He spits out the name of the airline, trying not to hold his breath or argue or distract her in any way from her task. He's tightly wound, every muscle tensed to run out the door and find a way to stop this madness. Emma _is_ worth it – she's worth whatever price he has to pay to make this right.

Regina sighs, holding out her phone. "There's only one afternoon flight on that airline, and it leaves in twenty minutes. You'll never make it in time. You can't stop her." He barely hears the words as he sinks down to the floor. Regina is still talking, but all he can do is stare blankly at the carpet in front of him, soul-crushing despair descending.

He considers it – leaving anyway. So what if he loses the movie role? He's made plenty of money over the years. There's nothing Hollywood loves more than a good comeback story. He could find Emma, apologize, take some time off from the industry for awhile to figure things out with her and then work his way back in. Sure, it wouldn't be easy, but Emma is _worth_ it.

Ignoring Regina, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, heart pounding as her phone – again – goes directly to voicemail. "Bloody hell, Swan, don't you dare get on that plane." He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes sliding shut as frustration borders on anger. "Please just come back so we can talk about this."

He drops the phone on the carpet, his head falling back against the wall as he struggles with his temper, the urge to throw the phone or punch the wall increasingly difficult to control.

"Hey." He's surprised to find Regina leaning down, her face close to his and her hand on his shoulder. "Look, I know you care for her. I've known for a long time you cared for the girl. I just didn't know it had gone quite so far. But it doesn't change that you can't leave now. It's not just the contract, and being sued. You leave now, production shuts down. The studio loses a lot of money. Think of the crew and the rest of the cast – it's not just you this decision affects. I'm sorry, Killian, but you need to let her go for now."

"For now?" he repeats bitterly, not bothering to look up.

"For now," she reaffirms, squeezing his shoulder before straightening. She hesitates, and he sees it again, that trace of sympathy before her features smooth out. "If she feels the same about you, it will work itself out. Let the media storm die down. If she's going after her son, the less attention on her the better.

"You prove to Gold that he's not getting to you. You go on with your day. You make this movie, and you give the performance of your life. When it's over, you can go after her. If it's meant to be, she'll have you, no contract needed." She pauses, eyeing him carefully. "But you should also consider that this may just have been about money for her."

"If it was about the bloody money she wouldn't have left. Her year isn't up," he snaps, and that's the worst part, because it's only further confirmation. If Emma was faking things with him, he couldn't have hurt her this morning with his words or his actions; if she hid the truth from him because she was just in it for the paycheck, she would have fulfilled her year before leaving.

"You fell in love with her."

"Aye."

Regina shakes her head, and he's shocked when she kicks off her heels and turns for the fridge. She slides down the wall beside him, handing him a bottle of ice cold water.

"Water?"

Regina merely lifts an eyebrow at him, cracking open her own bottle with a pointed silence before continuing. "Love is a dangerous thing in this business, Killian. I understand it's a difficult lesson. But Emma isn't dead – she's just going back to Los Angeles. Perhaps this isn't about you at all. Gold has put her son on the cover of every magazine he possibly could. She may have given the boy up once, but…" Regina shrugs, sipping at her water and leaning her head back against the door.

"You didn't see her face." He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the anchor necklace and lets it dangle from his fingers. "And she left this."

Regina runs her fingertip lightly over the silver, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "Since I've never seen that before, I have to assume it's a gift you bought her. So maybe it is about you. But that doesn't change your circumstances."

"It's a bloody simple matter to you, isn't it?"

She shrugs again in response. "I learned a long time ago that in order to succeed, I would have to make difficult choices. So I found ways to make them less difficult."

"By being alone."

She doesn't answer him, and they fall into silence as they finish their waters. Regina gets to her feet, offering him a hand he doesn't take. "Look, you get tonight. You stay in this room, and you do what you need to do. But tomorrow morning, you have a six a.m. call time. You _will_ be there. You _will_ be professional."

He hates her. He hates her because she's right.

* * *

Emma ducks into one of the airport newsstands for a bottle of water and some aspirin, her head already beginning to ache with the amount of crying she's been doing. She suspects her tears are the only thing that got her on this flight in the first place – they've been boarding for almost twenty minutes already – so she's rushing, not paying attention as she scans the magazines next to the cash register out of habit.

Her own face stares back at her, half-obscured by the screeching headline proclaiming her a despicable human being.

She knows she shouldn't. Killian made her promise not to read the trash printed about either one of them, but his opinion doesn't really matter anymore. Emma snatches up the magazine, stuffing it into the bottom of her bag after paying and hurrying to the gate.

The article is worse than she imagined. Gold paints her as a gold-digger playing an elaborate con on Killian, a terrible woman who abandoned her child and took off to live the high life of a movie star's girlfriend after manipulating her way through Hollywood.

It's packed with lies, and she shouldn't let it upset her, but each word is a fresh blow against her already crushed heart.

She shoves the magazine into the seat pocket in front of her, curling into a ball as much as she can in the cramped seat, tears burning in her eyes. Staring out the window at the fading ground, Emma gives herself permission to fall apart for the time it takes to get from Inverness back to Los Angeles. It's a long flight. There should be plenty of time to get it all out, purge herself of the hurt and stitch up the gaping wound in her chest. She leans against the side of the plane, yanks her hoodie over her head and lets herself cry until she feels like she can't possibly cry anymore.

She cries and she thinks.

Not about Killian – she can't think about Killian. That leads to falling apart, and she's enough of a mess without thinking about him more than she can help. Instead, she thinks about what she's going to do.

Her son is in a group home in Boston – Gold's digging has given her that much. It breaks her heart, the knowledge that the same shitty life she had is following her kid. She gave him up because she wanted _better_ for him, and yet he ends up in the same situation.

What she does next is obvious. She's got to go get him back. She has no idea what she's going to do about a job or money or a place to live, but she knows that whatever life she can cobble together for them has to be better than a group home, than growing up believing there's something wrong with you and that's why people don't love you.

She has some money saved. She hasn't had to spend a dime of it the last ten months, so it's still sitting in her account. She considers using Killian's credit card again, buying a plane ticket to Boston with it, but she can't. He's not hers anymore, and using his money…it's just wrong.

Emma was a thief, once. She won't be one again. She feels bad enough about the charge for the plane ticket home, but rational thought was something she wasn't capable of when she was choking down tears at the airline counter.

Besides, all of her own credit cards are locked in a safe at Killian's house. She hasn't needed them in months – there was no reason to carry them with her to Scotland.

The paparazzi are waiting for her at LAX, and she's thankful for her sunglasses. She does her best to ignore them, grabbing her bags and getting into a cab without a word. She grits her teeth and keeps her head down – she knows who to blame.

Gold. However he found out about Henry and her, it can't be hard for him to find her on a plane manifest. Not legal – but her old job taught her all about bending the rules.

Though for all she knows, someone recognized her on one of her flights and posted something on Twitter. Or god forbid, Instagram. The last thing she needs is for some photo of her sobbing into her sweatshirt to make it back to Killian.

She doesn't know if she's more afraid of him following her – or not.

But she can't think about that. She can't think about that or the voicemails on her phone she can't bring herself to listen to. There's three of them, and she knows without checking they're all from him.

She moves mechanically, refusing to cry, refusing to feel anything as she moves through the house – refusing to acknowledge the pain in her chest that makes her ribs feel like they may splinter at any moment.

This isn't the kitchen where she taught him to pipe frosting in the middle of the night, where he would sit on that stool and talk to her for hours while she baked away the insomnia – where from the very first night he never tried to hide his feelings for her.

This isn't the bedroom they spent hours in together, where she curled into his arms in the dead of night and breathed him in. It isn't the room where they got ready for countless events, where his eyes would fall on her all done up by the glam squad and, just for a second, long before he was supposed to, he would look at her with fierce desire and gentle affection.

She's not allowed to fall apart anymore. The plane ride is over. But somehow, her mind, her body, they won't obey. She falls into the bed, her face pressed to his pillow, and she's sobbing so hard her entire body shakes, pain radiating through every bone.

It was never supposed to be like this. It was one year and an easy paycheck. It was never supposed to be her falling in love with him – she was never supposed to care as much as she does. She wasn't supposed to find him charming and sexy and affectionate – she wasn't supposed to learn his heart and soul.

He wasn't supposed to walk out on her like everyone else – she was going to be the one to walk away. Their relationship had an expiration date from the start. It was clean and simple and it wasn't supposed to _destroy_ her.

She falls asleep in his bed, and she wakes up in the dead of night with a start. Groggy, she reaches for her phone, checking the time.

Killian has called. Ten times. There are two more voicemails, but she just _can't_ , deleting all the messages without listening to them before she puts the phone down, rubbing at her eyes. Her tears have left them gritty. She can't do this. She can't sleep in his bed and secretly hope he walks through the door, that he comes back for her. She can't listen to the messages he's left, messages sure to sway her into returning to his side only to end up right back here again one day when he tires of her.

This isn't a romance novel. It's not one of his movies. This is her life.

Moving with the efficiency of numbness, it doesn't take long to pack her things into the Bug. Truth be told, there isn't much to take. She has no use for the dresses, the jewelry, the shoes. She doesn't even have the heart to sell them, in spite of knowing she could use the money.

The boxes in the garage are mostly junk. She flips the light on, ignores his cars – especially the burgundy Maserati he loves best – and sorts through them. What she wants to keep fills two boxes, and those go into the Bug along with her clothes.

It's the middle of the night, and she should just get in her car and leave. She's decided to drive to Boston. It will simplify the matter of what to do with her car and her things if she just takes them with her. The sooner she gets on the road, the sooner she gets there.

But she needs to go back into the house, leave her key and his credit card. She's never been one for goodbyes, but it's impossible not to wander through the rooms, not to run her fingers over the mantle and the cool granite counters. There are too many memories here, and almost all of them are good.

She steps out onto the patio, breathes the night air in. Far below, the city lights carry on as though nothing has changed – as though her entire world hasn't been permanently shifted on its axis. She's changed for knowing him, and there's nothing she can do about that.

Her fingers travel to her bare neck without her permission, searching for something long gone. She wishes she had kept the necklace in this moment of weakness, lingering on his patio, memories washing over her while tears once again burn her eyes. She wishes for its weight against her chest, the silver warmed by her skin, and remembers that perfect moment he put it around her neck.

The way his eyes had clung to it when he made love to her.

"Stop it." She says the words out loud, makes herself repeat them until they come out cool and calm instead of shaky and broken. Then she walks into the house, carefully places her key and the credit card on the counter where they'll be easily seen, and she leaves.

She doesn't look back.

Killian rises when his alarm goes off, and he goes to set. He sits in the makeup chair, and he sips his coffee, and he tries to find the place he needs to go to in order to manage through the day's scenes.

 _Emma, love, I need you to call me back. Can we at least talk about this?_

Numbness wars with despair. Even when things went to hell with Milah, it was easier in some ways to cling to the rage and hurt than this. He never had hope with Milah, never doubted things were over – a clean break.

 _Bloody hell, Emma! You can't avoid me forever. This is bloody ridiculous. You're letting Gold win._

The tiny fraction of hope worries like a splinter in his heart, and some days that hurts more than the knowledge she's gone.

 _I miss you. It's three in the morning and I should be asleep. I should have slept. I should sleep. But you're all I can think about. The kitchen here doesn't even have an oven. Did you realize that? Are you awake, love? Can you sleep without me? I bloody well can't sleep without you. I need you, Emma. Please call me back._

David eyes him in between takes, and Killian knows he should do a better job of keeping his emotions in check, but he doesn't have the energy. Surviving his scenes is hard enough.

"Are you all right?" David asks quietly, glancing around at the crowded set. They're sitting far enough away not to be overheard, the crew busy setting up for the next scene, but Killian appreciates his friend's discretion all the same.

"She's gone," is all he can say in return, his throat tightening. David squeezes his arm but he doesn't say anything else. Killian has never been so grateful for his friend's ability to read him as he is in this moment.

 _I'm sorry, Emma. Come back. I will get down on my knees and beg if you'll just come back. I can't leave, not now. You said...you said you were proud of me for this role, and I want to make you proud. I want to go to this premiere with you. I wouldn't be here without you. I need you, love. I think you need me, too. Bloody hell, I miss you. Please call me back. Yell, curse, damn me to hell, but call me back…_

She doesn't answer when he calls. She doesn't respond to his text messages or voicemails, no matter how many he leaves – no matter if he's angry and demanding, or soft and pleading. In fact, after the first week, he can't even call anymore – he receives a message the number is no longer in service.

He throws his phone into the wall that day.

But the truth is, Emma is never _entirely_ gone.

Gold makes sure she's plastered over every magazine he owns, and others follow. Regina was at least right about one thing – Emma goes after her son.

And Gold documents each and every second of it.

* * *

The last time Emma drove cross-country, she was filled with excitement. A new life. A new chance. Los Angeles, the city where dreams can come true. She soaked up the changing landscape with each passing mile.

She barely remembers the drive when she finally arrives in Boston, collapsing onto a bed in a cheap motel on the city's outskirts. In the morning, she's going to the group home. She doesn't know what the legal requirements will be, what it's going to take to get her son back, but whatever it is, she's going to do it.

She's going to focus on this task, this goal, because anything less means letting the pain back in, and she _can't_ keep falling apart if she's going to get her son back.

They won't even let her see him the first time she tries.

She returns to her cheap motel room, and she doesn't give herself permission to, but she falls apart anyway. That's the day a reporter somehow gets a hold of her number, and she crushes the phone beneath her heel.

No more reporters. No more of Killian's calls and messages that break her heart all over again, messages that she can't stand to listen to and deletes before she's tempted. Just the sight of his name in her missed calls shatters her, makes the sobs rise in her throat all over again until her entire body shakes with them – he walked out once. He'll do it again. Apologies on her voicemail won't prove anything.

Killian is a distraction she can't afford, and a new phone number will solve the problem.

If she repeats it to herself enough, she might even begin to believe it.

They won't see her the next time she attempts to visit her son. "It's Thanksgiving," is the only explanation she gets.

She isn't sure what hurts more – that a holiday she was looking forward to has arrived without her noticing, or that they refuse her request on a day that's supposed to be about family.

Not that Emma has ever had family – but this year was supposed to be different. She was supposed to have Killian, and David, and Mary Margaret, and Leo.

Instead, she has a crappy motel room and a turkey sandwich.

She stares at her newly purchased phone, wondering what Killian is doing.

Her fingers itch to pick up the phone, to call him under the pretense of wishing him a happy Thanksgiving. She's so tired – tired of crying, tired of hurting, tired of fighting for her son by herself. She wants to crawl into Killian's arms, to have him comfort her with his gentle touch and perfect words.

But giving into that desire is what got her into this mess in the first place. She has to remember that every time her thumb hovers over his name, her contacts so helpfully restored by the new phone's software.

She's spent plenty of holidays alone. What's one more?

* * *

As the days slide into each other, Killian struggles to keep up with filming, to pour every ounce of emotion into his character. It must be working, because he slides off the horse he's been riding for the day's battle scene, and the director claps him on the back, tells him he's done a fantastic job – that he really sold the rage. Killian mutters his thanks, but his eyes catch David's and they both know it wasn't entirely acting out on that field.

He doesn't even know who he's more angry at these days – Gold, Emma or himself.

David finds him at the end of the day, ignoring Killian's glare as he climbs into the car beside him. He doesn't want to talk to David. He wants to go back to his room and lose himself in the bottle of scotch the hotel helpfully replaces. It's not like it was, before – he's sober on set, clings to the need to do well on the bloody movie after everything he's given up to be here – but the nights are different.

The nights belong to Emma, and he can't face her without a bit of liquid courage.

It's an hour drive back to the hotel, but David doesn't say a word. Killian stares out the window, watching the passing scenery while ignoring David's eyes on him. He's fully aware the only thing stopping any kind of lecture or prying question is the driver's presence, and Killian thinks he'll be able to escape into the hotel.

He underestimates his friend's determination.

"I've been watching you do this for too long. I've tried to give you space, but all you're doing with it is sulking and drinking."

Killian scowls, begrudgingly letting David follow him into his room. Better to just get it over with here, out of sight, than risk an outburst on set. Killian might not care about much these days beyond trying to get a hold of Emma, but he does still care about doing well on this movie.

Emma would be disappointed if he stopped trying. He holds onto that, to the chance that things will work themselves out and they'll be together again – that the magic of their happiness that morning can be recaptured.

 _I'm so proud of you. You've worked so hard, training with David, and going to all those press events even when you didn't want to. You worked for this, and so, yes, I'm proud._

"Thanksgiving is next week."

David's voice cuts into the memory, and Killian grunts in response, struggling not to wince. He's well aware of the bloody calendar, his dreams of Emma in their kitchen baking pies and other treats gone up in smoke. It doesn't matter that wouldn't have happened this year, anyway, with them in Scotland. They would have been together, and he would have whispered it all into her ear just to see the faint tint of pink take over her cheeks.

He would have enjoyed planning a future with her.

"Have you talked to her?"

"I left more messages than I can bloody count. But as she's since changed her number, that option is no longer available." He flings himself onto the couch, scrubbing his palms over his face. The frustration of that damned _this number is no longer in service_ message makes his hands clench into fists. "I need her in my life, mate. Without her…"

"You realize you've never even told me what happened."

Killian sighs, scratching behind his ear. "It's not a flattering tale."

"Gold's story broke and you overreacted?"

"You do know you're supposed to be on my side, right?"

"I've known you for a long time, but even if I didn't...it's all over your face. I've never seen a man look so guilty and devastated at the same time."

He doesn't answer right away, his eyes drifting toward the bottle of scotch on the counter. He wants to tell his friend to go away, to find solace in the numbness of liquor, but instead he finds himself telling David everything. Not only their argument the morning Gold's story broke, but the late nights in the kitchen, the breakfasts on the patio, that damn pillow wall and how it finally came down.

"I need her to breathe," he says in a whisper by the end, his throat tight with tears he refuses to shed in front of his friend. "I feel like I will suffocate without her. But she's fighting for her son. I can't make that harder for her."

"So you don't. Her fight for her son will end eventually. And when it does, she'll need you – even if she's too stubborn to admit it. Have you tried reaching out to her attorney? If it goes to court, it will be a matter of public record."

"I'm not certain she even has an attorney. You saw her apartment. The lass didn't have much to start with, and it was one of Regina's conditions she not work during our relationship. She still has my credit card, but other than the plane ticket, she hasn't charged a cent." He would know. He still checks the app like a bloody madman, praying for another airline charge, the vain hope of her returning stubbornly clinging on.

David raises an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest. "So find her an attorney. The sooner this mess with her son is resolved, the sooner you can repair things." David claps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "Mary Margaret will be here next week. Spend Thanksgiving with us. You shouldn't be alone."

Killian mutters an unintelligible response as David leaves, but the idea does make him feel a little less helpless. With Regina's begrudging assistance, he finds an attorney in Boston, one with a history in custody cases. He makes her swear not to breathe a word of it to Emma, because he can't take the chance she'll refuse on principle.

Maybe if she gets her boy back her heart will heal enough to consider mending things with him.

The attorney promises to get in touch with Emma after the holiday, and the knowledge he's done _something_ is the only thing that gets him through Thanksgiving with the Nolans. Production shuts down for a few days, and Mary Margaret's enduring optimism follows him everywhere he goes as she keeps up a constant stream of cheerful chatter.

He looks at her with Leo on her hip, and all he can think about is Emma with her son – what Emma would be like with an infant of their own. She never had those experiences with her son – would she want a second chance with a child of theirs?

 _Getting a bit ahead of yourself, mate. You don't know if she even wants a second chance with you._

"How are you, Killian?" Mary Margaret asks when they return from dinner and settle into the small living room of David's suite. She smiles softly, her hand on his knee.

David is in the bedroom settling Leo down for the night, and Killian struggles not to leave while he has the chance. He didn't even want to come this far – he planned to return to his own room and drink until the tightness in his chest eased some.

"It's Thanksgiving, man. Hang out with us for a bit." David's voice made it clear he wasn't really asking. He's been doing that a lot lately, keeping an eye on Killian and doing his damndest to save him from himself.

Killian doesn't want to be saved. He just wants Emma.

"Killian?"

Mary Margaret's concerned tone breaks him from his thoughts, and he does the best he can to plaster a smile on his face. "I'm fine. Busy with filming and all. I'm sure Dave's told you about it. How are you liking Scotland?"

He feels like a fraud as the words come out of his mouth, like he's talking to a stranger instead of his best friend's wife. But even if he could put into words the crushing, ever-present pain of Emma's absence, it's Thanksgiving and Mary Margaret doesn't need to listen to his woes.

"David is worried about you. We both are." She ignores his attempt to change the subject, her voice gentle. "Would you like me to go to Boston? I know you and David…"

"No," he cuts in sharply, wincing at his own voice. "No," he repeats more quietly, staring at the floor. "I won't have you make my apologies for me. I will go to her myself once she has won custody of her son and I have more than one bloody day off from filming."

He'll find her, apologize, beg – whatever he has to do in order to get her back in his life.

If she'll even see him.

"Tell David goodnight for me. I find I'm rather tired."

"Killian…"

"It's Thanksgiving, love. Enjoy being with your family. I'll be fine."

"You are family."

He chuckles bitterly, shaking his head at her soft reply. "I wish to be alone tonight." He brushes a kiss against Mary Margaret's cheek before fleeing the room, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

He falls asleep clutching Emma's anchor pendant tightly, clinging to the tiniest shred of hope that next year, he'll have a family of his own to celebrate holidays with.

* * *

They try to frighten her off when she goes back to the group home, threaten her with a long legal battle. The woman who greets her looks down her nose at Emma, scowls at her ragged appearance. "Aren't you dating some movie star?" she says with derision, practically sneering at Emma's tangled hair and ripped jeans.

"That's none of your business. I want to see my son. This is the fifth time I've been here, and I don't understand why I can't even talk to–"

"Lady, he stopped being your son the minute you gave him up. I don't understand you people, signing away kids and coming back for them another day like they're just a pair of shoes you forgot in a closet. These kids need…"

"They need mothers," a cool voice says from behind them. Emma spins on her boots, wondering who the hell would bother jumping to her defense.

The woman is blonde, her hair in a neat braid that falls over one shoulder. It clashes with her suit, but it softens her somehow, makes her less icy than her cold gaze at the social worker would suggest. She turns to Emma, her expression melting as she holds out her hand. "My name is Elsa. I'm an attorney, and I'd like to take your case."

"I can't afford…"

"Pro bono." Elsa smiles at her before turning back to the suddenly silent woman behind the desk. "We'll be back with a court order." She takes Emma's hand, pulls her out of the group home and out into the crisp fall day. Emma shivers, rubbing at her arms, but it doesn't seem to faze the lawyer.

"Why?" is all Emma can come up with, meeting the woman's stare with bafflement. "Why would you do this for me? You don't know me."

Elsa sighs, shifting her bag to her other shoulder. "I think it's a terrible injustice what's been done to you. When the story broke, and they printed your son's face all over those magazines…" Emma winces, because she knows about those pictures – they're the only ones she has of her son. He has Neal's eyes, but her cheekbones. His smile is rare, but when it appears, his entire face lights up.

"I started looking into what sort of person could publish pictures of a child like that. It's obvious this isn't just another Hollywood scandal. I discovered there's a bit of a history between your Mr. Jones and…"

"He's not mine," Emma cuts in, squeezing her eyes shut because her voice still catches, and she doesn't _want_ this, this agonizing hole in her chest where her heart is supposed to be.

Elsa doesn't say anything right away, but when Emma opens her eyes, she finds the woman watching her, a tiny smile playing at her lips. "Either way, Emma, I believe this all has very little to do with you and everything to do with an old disagreement between those two men. I can help. Women need to help other women. It's the only way things get better." She takes a deep breath, offering her hand to Emma.

Emma stares at it, her eyes flickering back to the group home. She's going to need an attorney – she doesn't understand the legal complications of trying to get her son out of the foster system when legally she has no right to him. Her meager savings isn't going to get her far if she has to spend it on lawyer's fees.

"Okay." Emma takes her hand, shaking it firmly. "So where do we start?"

Elsa smiles, her evaluation of Emma's disheveled appearance somehow gentler than the harsh inspection of the foster home's employees. "Where are you staying?"

"It's fine. I just haven't had a chance to…"

"Come stay with me. I have a gate, and it will keep the reporters out. The house is huge – if you don't want to see me, you don't have to. It's been in the family forever, and my sister's just moved in with her new husband, so." Elsa smiles again, her bright blue eyes so much like _his_ it makes Emma's heart ache all over again. "Besides, when we end up in court – and Emma, I'm sorry to say, we will – appearances count for far more than they should. Even if you won't accept my offer, you need to find a better place to stay."

Emma goes.

It's strange to be back in such grand surroundings after all the days in her car, in the crappy motel rooms. Elsa shows her to a guest room, squeezing her shoulder as she promises to show her around in the morning.

Emma nods, holding back tears as she stands stiffly in the middle of the room, her bag clutched against her side. She doesn't know the lawyer, and in spite of wanting to trust her, she doesn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The tears come as soon as the door closes, and Emma crumples to the floor, hugging her bag to her chest. Elsa's offer has given her hope for the first time since Killian walked out of that hotel room in Scotland, but the memories of him are stronger tonight, crushing her beneath their weight.

It grows dark around her, and when it seems she's cried herself out, she gives herself a firm mental shake.

 _Get it together, Emma._

She has her own bathroom, thankfully giving her the night to hole up in this room and figure out how to put herself back together again after today's emotional overload. A shower will go a long way, so she digs out some toiletries and sets about washing off the day.

She should be able to sleep, but there's too much of Killian in this house in spite of the fact he's never set foot in it. The sheets are soft, the bed comfortable and luxurious. It's quiet despite the city around them, and she feels the gaping emptiness of the bed more acutely here than she ever did on a lumpy motel mattress.

After several hours of tossing and turning, she slips out of the room, the stillness of the house an assurance she'll be left alone. The kitchen isn't difficult to find, but Emma's chest tightens painfully as she flips on the lights.

Baking has always settled her, the precision and rhythm of it allowing her to lose herself in something other than her troubles. It's been her constant companion through many lonely nights, many painful memories, but her hand shakes as she reaches for the oven settings.

She snatches her fingers back with a choked sob, clamping her palm over her mouth in a futile effort to keep the wracking sobs from consuming her all over again.

Chocolate cupcakes are his favorite. Red velvet cupcakes were the first night she willingly slept in his arms. She tried to teach him to pipe vanilla frosting.

Elsa finds her in the morning, still staring at the oven without seeing anything at all. Emma doesn't offer an explanation and Elsa is kind enough not to ask as Emma slinks away to clean herself up.

* * *

So first off, I would just like to say that I was shocked by the "who is behind the door" debate the last chapter kicked off. I mean, cliffhanger (writers are evil, sorry y'all) but this was way more than I expected! Honestly, having Milah show up never even occurred to me while I was writing.

With all this angst, the next chapter is scheduled to go up Friday. Many, many thanks to beta wonder onceuponsomechaos for her work on this. Fun fact: Killian's voicemails weren't in my first draft. She told me to write them. So you can blame thank her for that extra little twist of the knife ;)


	20. Chapter 20

The custody hearings begin and Killian follows the story through the tabloids. He has no idea what is true and what isn't, but the photos of Emma are real enough.

She rarely appears without sunglasses and a hat, but he can see the hollows of her cheeks, the tenseness in her body despite her heavy winter coat. He spent too much time with her, too much time watching her move to not see how stiffly she holds herself when reporters follow her in and out of the court rooms. Their demands are endless. Why did she give her son up in the first place, did Killian know what sort of person she was when they started dating, where _is_ Killian? Is this not important enough for him to leave his movie set? Did he know about her son and her time in jail? Did he break up with her because he doesn't want children? Was she only with him for his money?

Regina's response has been a resolute _no comment_ , and he's too insulated for the press to get any quotes out of him – Regina hustles him in and out of the hotel through the back exits to ensure he doesn't step out of line. So the magazines debate the status of his relationship with Emma, everything from a full crash and burn to the idea they're still together, her struggling for her son while he films in Scotland.

He doesn't give a bloody damn what they print about him. Regina has a plan – Regina always has a plan – but he doesn't give a damn about that either. He _does_ care what they print about Emma, but he hasn't an ounce of control over that. So he grits his teeth as he watches the paparazzi videos of her, guilt threatening to overwhelm him, but he _needs_ to see her – even if this is the only way.

Even if every word out of the vermins' mouths makes his fists clench tightly, and the urge to get on the next plane to Boston grows stronger and stronger. He starts to look at flight schedules, to see if it's possible to make it there and back on his one day a week off from shooting, too impatient to wait for the Christmas break. He gets as far as hovering his finger over the purchase button, his heart pounding, before he reminds himself it's not about how badly he needs her in his life – she's fighting for her son.

Killian suddenly arriving in Boston will only bring more unwanted attention onto Emma.

The lawyer isn't much help – she relays bits and pieces, but she's vague when Killian asks after Emma. He gets the impression the women have become friends, and despite him being the one to pay the bill, Elsa is reluctant to betray Emma's trust. The endless frustration of not being able to say three words to Emma is slightly soothed by the knowledge that she at least has a friend in Boston.

"Would you please tell her I've called? If you would provide me her new number…"

"I'll tell her, Killian, but I'm sorry. I can't give you her number without her permission."

He tries not to go mad, Regina constantly reminding him of all the reasons he can't leave. He lays awake at night, and he knows he's just making it worse, but he thumbs through the photos on his phone, struggles to remember the memories. Some were instigated by Regina's requests, but many, many more were the moments he wanted for himself.

Including their first night alone together.

He never told Emma he kept the photo from that night, the one he snapped to tease her, to see her brilliant eyes light up in shock. Her hair tangled and the beginning of a smile curving her lips, he already knew he was done for. _That's_ the one he stares at, runs his finger over while whispering into the darkness.

* * *

Elsa is right – they do end up in court. The case drags on, reporters shove microphones in her face, ask her questions about Killian, about Henry's father, about what sort of _person_ she is. She struggles to remain indifferent – at least in public – and strong, above the nonsense.

She misses Killian. She thought it would get easier as the days turn to weeks, that her heart would forget. She only wore that damn necklace for a night, but her fingers still absently reach for it.

Killian calls her attorney. She's surprised when Elsa mentions it, an overly casual _Killian Jones called for you_ at dinner one night. Her head jerks up from her picked-at meal to find inquisitive blue eyes that still remind her too much of him, but they're not judgmental. "I can't," Emma whispers, tears brimming without her permission. "I have to… Henry… I can't get distracted…"

"It's all right. I only said I would tell you."

Emma doesn't try to bake again.

* * *

Christmas brings a fresh round of torment. Refusing to repeat Thanksgiving with David and Mary Margaret, Killian locks himself in his room for three days with several bottles of scotch. If he drinks enough, he will be incapable of leaving his hotel room and impulsively getting on a plane to Boston, potentially harming Emma's chances with her son when she's already fought for so long. He sets his phone to silent and yanks the cord of the hotel phone out of the wall.

He tries not to spend those days wondering what could have been, how he could have had Emma tucked into his arms in front of the fire, exchanging gifts and plans for the future.

Instead he has a cold hearth he hasn't had the heart to light since the last embers burned themselves out so many mornings ago and an empty bed in a room that has too many memories of her.

It's not as though he has anyone to note his absence beyond David, who calls in between banging on his door once or twice a day. Killian ignores him. The few times he bothers to look at the phone screen, his only other missed call is from an unavailable number that doesn't leave a message.

In a drunken fit of desperation, he writes a check and sends it to Elsa with a note for Emma. He knows it's a bad idea deep down even as he grasps the pen in his hand, struggling against the tremble in his fingers.

But maybe it will get her attention. Maybe she'll speak to him for a few precious seconds that may make a difference.

If nothing else, she'll be able to provide for her boy. They can be comfortable.

Even if it is without him.

"I'm sorry, Killian," Elsa says softly when she calls after he'd had a long day back on set, genuine sympathy in her voice. "She tore it up the moment I gave it to her."

He's not surprised, but the fragile flame of hope he was holding onto – a Christmas miracle – gutters out. He thanks the lawyer for her call, hangs up, and opens a fresh bottle of liquor.

* * *

Christmas is hard, the court case still pending. Elsa invites Emma along to her sister's, but she doesn't have the heart to do anything more than sit on the couch watching _It's a Wonderful Life_ and struggle not to cry in front of Elsa's family.

She doesn't touch the beautiful cupcakes with the delicate snowflake sprinkles Anna made for the occasion.

She blames those cupcakes for her moment of weakness. They remind her of that horrible night in Elsa's kitchen, how she can't even _bake_ anymore without him. It feels like she can't do _anything_ without him, like she needs him to put one foot in front of the other.

Like maybe she should have listened to Killian's voicemails and let him convince her she never should have left.

She calls him. Her heart races as the phone rings in her ear, once, twice, on and on until his voicemail picks up. The sound of his voice tears open the hole in her chest she's been trying so desperately to mend, and she hangs up quickly.

She doesn't leave a message. She shouldn't have called. She has no right to call him now, on Christmas of all days, because she's feeling lonely amidst a happy, shiny family.

 _You could have had that_.

Elsa comes to her not a week later with a hesitant smile and a check with a note, but Emma rips the entire envelope into tiny pieces in a fit of rage and walks away before she can read whatever message he's sent. She doesn't need to look at the check to know how much it's for.

She'll be damned if she's going to take his money – _bought and paid for, darling_. He should know her better by now than to think a god damn check will solve anything, least of all things between them.

It only occurs to her later, when her temper has cooled, that the money could have helped her with Henry, could have bought them a home and stability.

It's a fierce reminder of where her priorities need to be – she needs to focus on Henry. It doesn't matter that she misses Killian desperately, that her eyes grow damp when she sees a chocolate cupcake in a bakery window – Henry is her priority right now.

* * *

January has barely begun when David walks up to him on set, grinning ear to ear. Killian has no idea what he's so happy about – today's scene is dark, which is just fine with him. It's not much of a stretch to find his character's headspace with his own spiraling thoughts.

"Did you hear?" David asks in greeting, the stupid smile still all over his face.

"That you've taken on a role as a madman? No, afraid not."

David scowls instantly, folding his arms over his chest with a disapproving look. "Emma won her custody case," he says after a pause, his voice more level.

"That's...that's wonderful news," Killian manages to get out, but the happiness he wants to grasp for elludes him. He's wanted this for her, bloody hell, has he wanted this for her, but he's barely been able to keep himself going under the pretense that once the case was over, they could mend things.

He's stuck in Scotland for at least another three weeks, and he knows Emma. She won't stay in Boston long. He tries to call the lawyer anyway, begs to speak with Emma, but she's not at home – or so the lawyer says.

He tells himself he'll try again tomorrow, that he'll keep trying until Elsa gets tired of putting him off or by some miracle Emma agrees to speak with him. He's positive if he could just _talk_ to her that they could work things out.

But with an all-too familiar sense of deja vu, he's woken early by the ringing of his phone, Regina on the other end of the line demanding to know _what the hell_ he was thinking.

* * *

The day the judge declares Henry hers is a relief like she's never known before. She's been allowed to visit – short, monitored visits Elsa demanded – and been amazed to discover the foster system hasn't turned her son into the bitter, angry kid it did her. Maybe he's still young enough, maybe it hasn't been like it was for her, but she doesn't care about the reasons.

Her son smiles when the judge declares her his legal guardian once again, and for a few precious hours, that's all she cares about.

They go back to Elsa's, Emma trying to work through what happens next. She's been so consumed with getting custody of her son she hasn't thought long term. Do they go back to California? Do they try to start over here, in Boston, this city with so many bad memories for them both?

It's Henry that decides it for her. He's asked about her life in California, about the palm trees and the beaches, and when he asks in a tentative, quiet voice if maybe she would take him to see it one day, her mind is made up. Back to California they go.

There's a flickering moment of hope in Emma's heart at the thought. Returning to California puts her near Killian again. Maybe Henry's wish for them to go back is a sign – but Emma doesn't believe in signs.

But maybe...maybe if she could see Killian, if he met Henry, and Emma had some time to get to know her son, maybe…maybe she at least owes the man a conversation. Maybe now that the all-consuming need to get her son back has faded, she can admit the truth to herself.

She misses Killian. She misses him desperately, and she still loves him as much now as she did in Scotland before everything went to hell.

She goes to bed with her heart filled with hope, sleeping easily for the first time in weeks with Henry in the next room and the thought that maybe, just _maybe_ , she can fix things with Killian.

Emma is humming to herself in the kitchen, cutting up fruit to go with the waffles she plans to make once Elsa comes downstairs. Henry is sitting at the counter peppering her with questions about California when Elsa appears.

Emma's smile falls instantly, the look of worry in the other woman's eyes setting her on edge. "Everything okay?"

Elsa's eyes slide over to Henry before she meets Emma's stare. "Yeah, I just have some paperwork for you to sign in my office."

"Okay." Emma knows there isn't any paperwork to sign, but she carefully puts the knife down and wipes her hands on her jeans. "I'll be right back, Henry."

Her stomach churns as she follows Elsa down the hall, and she has to fight not to wrap her arms around herself. "What's going on?"

Elsa turns back to her, chewing on her lip for a minute before handing Emma her phone. "Killian called. These were on Gold's site first, and he says it's not real, but…I thought it was better if you knew now, before some stupid reporter asks you about it."

"Knew wh…" She almost drops the phone, the grainy image unmistakably Killian in a passionate embrace with his costar. Emma's hand shakes as she hands the phone back, tears burning in her eyes. "Thank you for showing me," she whispers, nearly choking on the words.

"Emma…" Elsa's voice trails off, her eyes soft with sympathy as she holds the phone against her chest. "His message…I don't think he's lying about it not being what it looks like."

"It looks pretty real to me." Emma leans back against the wall, struggling to control her breathing. Falling apart is _not_ an option anymore. The burn of jealousy doesn't matter; the rising guilt that this is _her fault_ , that she could have somehow stopped this if she had been stronger, less afraid _can't_ matter. She has Henry to look after, and her son does not need to spend his first days with his mother watching her go to pieces. "He's not in costume. That's his T-shirt."

She should know. She's slept in it plenty of times.

Still, her mind rebels against the idea – he said he _loved_ her – but she's got to be rational. It's been months. He's attractive and successful. Of course he's over her. Maybe he wouldn't have gotten over her if she had returned his calls – maybe if she had realized sooner the aching hole in her heart where he used to be wasn't going to go away…but she didn't.

The fact is he's moved on. It's time for her and Henry to do the same. The little voice whispering in the back of her mind that _he called to explain_ is firmly shoved down with an assurance he's only upset he got caught.

"Henry and I should get out of your hair. We'll hit the road after breakfast. Probably best to get him away from all the craziness anyway. Figure out where we're going to live."

"You know you can stay as long as you want."

"I know." Emma smiles through the tears running down her cheeks despite her efforts to hold them in. "I appreciate everything you've done for us, really. When we get settled, you should come visit."

"I'd like that."

Emma hugs Elsa before they leave, whispering her thanks one last time.

* * *

"I have not the slightest idea what you're talking about," Killian manages to get out, interrupting Regina's inexplicable tirade. "If you would be so kind as to explain."

"So that's how you want to play it? Fine. What the hell are you doing kissing Ashley Boyd where anyone can see you? I understand you're still upset over the unfortunate business with the Swan girl, but this isn't…"

"I haven't been...it's two in the morning in Los Angeles. Why are you calling to discuss this now?" he asks with growing alarm, his sleep-clogged brain remembering suddenly Regina had returned to California for the week. Other than when filming or rehearsing, he hasn't so much as thought about kissing another woman, but her accusation has to come from somewhere.

There's a heavy silence before Regina speaks in a tone of cold fury. "Gold just published photos of you that give a rather different impression. They'll get picked up by morning."

Kilian fumbles out of bed and into the living room, sinking onto the couch and flipping open his laptop as he blinks at the suddenly bright screen. It only takes a few clicks before he's staring at a blurry set of photos carefully arranged to make it seem that only yesterday he was in a rather passionate embrace with his costar. "I'm going to kill the bloody bastard," he growls into the phone, slamming the screen shut.

"We can sue."

"That will only give it more attention." He forces himself to breathe, his free hand clenching into a fist. "I'm going to Boston as soon as we wrap. I'll explain what he's done. We were rehearsing a scene. I had to...bloody hell, she had to tell me to think of Emma to get the damn scene right, Regina. It was mortifying and now…"

"You're certain you don't want me to do anything?"

"Nothing legal. Thank you for telling me." Killian hangs up, taking a deep breath and rubbing his palms against his eyes, struggling with his emotions. As much as he wants to grab Gold by his scrawny neck and strangle the life out of him, he's terrified of Emma's reaction more. He's been counting on the custody case ending being an opportunity for them, but if Emma sees those photos…

It's five in the morning in Boston, but he tries calling Elsa anyway. She doesn't answer – not much of a surprise given the hour – and he leaves a pleading message for her to call him back when she wakes.

He doesn't have to be to set for hours – it's a week of night shoots – but he's too wound up to sleep. He paces, stewing.

It's as though Gold _knew_ Killian hoped Emma getting her son back would soften her heart, and set about ruining his chance by publishing photos certain to drive her away. There's no way for her to know Gold has manipulated a rehearsal kiss with a costar into a new affair – there's no _reason_ for her to not assume he's moved on.

By the time he reaches Elsa the next day, it's only to find out Emma has left without a clue as to where she was taking her boy beyond somewhere in California. He punches a wall in a fit of rage, and doesn't explain when David raises an eyebrow at his scraped knuckles.

* * *

Her road trip with Henry is everything it should be. The snows fade as they move south and west, giving way to warmer temperatures and brighter skies. They stop at the tourist traps. Emma finds her ability to laugh again posing for silly pictures with her son, who inherited her sense of humor, among other things.

She does not think about photos with Killian and Instagram and red carpets and all the other photographic evidence that he loved her – once. She does _not_ open the app on her phone late at night, when Henry is fast asleep, and page through the images that were meant to be staged and were anything but by the end.

Maybe they never were.

The miles give her and Henry a chance to really learn one another, and Emma wouldn't trade these days for anything. The road stretches endlessly before them, and for the two weeks it takes to cross the country, it seems like she might actually be happy again for the first time since Killian turned to her with betrayal in his eyes that morning in Scotland.

She thinks about asking for her old job back, but it's dangerous work and the hours aren't regular. It was one thing when it was just herself to look out for, but she's got Henry now. Living in the city is expensive, and she can't take him from the group home to an awful shoebox of an apartment.

Besides, after everything that's happened, all Emma wants to do is disappear. A city like Los Angeles isn't the place to do that.

The idea comes to her by way of a billboard on the highway, of all things.

"You like horses, kid?" she asks, staring up at the sign until she has to turn her eyes back to the road.

He shrugs, staring out at the palm trees in wonder. "Never seen one in real life."

"I was thinking maybe I could get a job on a ranch. I spent some time at one…before." She swallows the hurt, wills the pain to not ache so acutely. It's been months. It really shouldn't be like this anymore, this gnawing, deep pain that sears her when she thinks of him.

"Cool."

Emma refuses to go back _there_ , but she remembers there were others in the area. She gets lucky on her third inquiry, just when she was beginning to think her idea, like so many others, was ill-conceived and doomed to fail.

The old woman who owns the place eyes her critically, spectacles sliding down her nose. "A ranch is hard work, Emma, but you'll forgive me for saying I suspect you need a bit of hard work to distract you from your troubles. You'll find that here. My granddaughter will tell you, when she's not busy running after one of the hands." She sighs, glancing toward Emma's car, where Henry is watching with his arms folded in the open window. "My foreman's son is a few years younger than your boy. It might be good to have children around the place again."

"Thank you," Emma whispers gratefully, relief washing through her as she turns to smile at Henry, sneaking a thumb's up. "You won't regret it, ma'am."

"Everyone just calls me Granny. Don't let it fool you, dear. I still know how to use that shotgun on the porch. But none of this ma'am foolishness. Granny will do just fine."

Emma nods, listening as her duties are outlined and the terms of her employment are given. The pay is minimal, but room and board are included, and that's really all she cares about. The press will never find her and her son out here, and it will be a peaceful, quiet life.

No grand romances. No falling in love. No shattering into a million pieces when things go wrong.

* * *

The movie finally wraps for location shoots and he returns to his home in the hills, holding out hope for the duration of the flight that she's left some final clue behind, a trail of crumbs for him to follow. It's a vain hope – the house is empty of any trace of her. Her key and credit card sit on the kitchen island, not so much as a note to accompany them.

All that's left behind to prove she once lived there are the expensive jewelry and shoes and dresses. It all hangs neatly in his closet beside his own things, like if he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath she may appear in the doorway with her hair in soft waves, searching for the perfect pair of shoes.

Being in LA is worse, in some ways. He can't drive to the lookout – he remembers sitting on the hood of her car, remembers that first night he brought her there, already half in love with her and wanting her to see him as a man instead of a mess. He can't light any of the fires – there are far too many memories in the flickering light of the flames.

He roams the house at night when he can't sleep, bottle of rum in hand, but she's not in the kitchen baking. She's not offering him up a taste of frosting from her finger, she's not curled into the couch in front of the fire or doing yoga in the yard.

She's just gone.

* * *

Emma and Henry fall into the rhythm of the ranch. She collapses into bed exhausted each night, but Henry is happy, and that's good enough. She doesn't care if she has to muck out stalls for the next decade or so until he goes to college. She likes being around the horses, the quiet of the early mornings with their big bodies snorting and snuffling in the hay.

On slow days, when the work is done, Granny even teaches her and Henry to ride a bit. She's never going to be as good as Killian and David, but she learns to be comfortable in the saddle – and Henry loves it.

She's chasing after him through the barn like any other day, warning him not to spook the horses – they've grown used to him, but she's his mother and she needs to _attempt_ to corral him – when she turns the corner and the past slams into her.

* * *

Filming resumes at the studio in Los Angeles, and for a time, the long days and nights exhaust him enough, distract him. But that ends too, and he turns to the familiar comfort of a bottle, rarely leaving his house. In a few weeks, the press tour will begin, the endless junkets and interviews and boring questions he'll answer time and again with a smile plastered on his face. He'll have to put himself back together for those, and he's not looking forward to it, but for now it doesn't matter.

He isn't entirely surprised when David shows up at his door one morning, coffee in one hand and breakfast in the other. "Get dressed," he says in greeting, giving Killian's appearance a once over. "Let me rephrase. Take a shower. Get dressed. Drink this." He shoves the cup of coffee into his hand, pushing his way into the house.

"Go away, Dave."

"Put on jeans. We're going riding," David continues as though Killian hasn't dismissed him. Their eyes meet, and Killian has never wanted to punch his friend in the face as badly as he does right now, but he doesn't. On some level, he knows David is only trying to help.

He doesn't want to be helped. He _did_ this. He deserves to feel every last agonizing second of it.

Well, he started it. Gold is the one who's kept it going, and he doesn't trust himself near the bloody crocodile. He'll never get Emma back from the inside of a jail cell – assuming he ever locates the woman. Even the private investigator he hired hasn't been able to find her.

"You are not staying in this house drinking yourself into a stupor today. You want to do that tonight, you go ahead. But today you're going riding with me."

"You're an irritating bastard."

"Yeah, man, I know. Move. I told them we'd be there around noon."

Killian goes, snatching the bag from his friend's hand before turning for the shower. David knows him well – he's brought chocolate donuts. A pang goes through him as he tears into one, memories of Emma and chocolate frosting assaulting him.

"Have you heard from her?" David asks on the drive, his voice soft, tentative. Killian doesn't talk about Emma these days – not to him, not to anyone. It's hard to even say her name, though there are times he still runs the silver chain through his fingers, the anchor charm swinging from the delicate metalwork.

"Not a bloody word." Killian stares out the window, his emotions swirling. It's common these days – one moment the guilt drowns him, the next, his temper flares to life because how the hell did she just _leave_ like that, after everything? He's tried to understand, he has, but she didn't even give him a _chance_ to explain before taking off. She ignored his calls, ignored his voicemails, ignored the attempts to contact her through her attorney while she battled for her son.

 _Henry, his name is Henry._

"Tough break." It's the last David says on the subject, and Killian hates him a little bit more, but he can't deny that getting into the saddle and on a horse helps. It's a different place than the one they've been to before, and Killian says a silent thanks to David for that – for just _knowing_ their usual place has memories of Emma at every turn. They spend the day in the far fields, galloping from one end to the next, and he's not exactly _happy_ , but he's managed at least one genuine laugh, and that will have to do.

They're nearly back to the barn, man and beast alike sweaty and covered in dirt when he hears a child's laughter, the slapping of sneakers against brick drifting out of the open barn doors. It makes him ache, because it's just another reminder of Emma. Even the woman's voice calling after the child, it sounds just like…

He hasn't changed a bit. He's still all lean muscle, and even from a distance, the blue of his eyes takes her breath away. "Killian," she whispers, stopping in her tracks and feeling the blood rush out of her face, dizziness rising. She dimly wonders if she's going to faint for the first time in her life.

"Emma…" He hasn't moved a muscle, still in the saddle with his back straight and his hands clenched on the reins, but his voice _breaks_ and all she can do is stare at him helplessly.

* * *

"Henry, I've told you not to run! You'll spook the horses!" She rounds the corner in that moment, and he sees her, dusty jeans and messy braid, chasing after a brown-haired boy with his mother's smile. She lifts her eyes as the horses grow closer, reaching for her son's shoulder to pull him out of the way.

He's too far away to hear the whisper of his name, but he can read it from her lips. She stares back at him, eyes wide with shock as the color drains out of her face, her hand tight on her son's shoulder.

"Emma…"

* * *

I know, I know. Another cliffhanger. But it's a good one! Many thanks as always to onceuponsomechaos for fab beta skills.

So I'm going to ramble a little. It's Author Appreciation Week over on Tumblr, which I didn't know was coming but has been astounding. So many of you have taken the time to send me messages and nightships even made me this really cool graphic that gives you a good idea of Killian's pool/city view. I've seen such an outpouring of positivity in our fandom for all the talented writers and it warms my black little heart. I'm going to channel JMo for a minute and say _keep it up!_ So much drama comes with any fandom this size, and it would be nice if we could hang onto the happy for awhile.

Now I'm gonna go write some more really heartbreaking angst.


	21. Chapter 21

"Mom?"

Henry's puzzled inquiry draws their attention away from each other, and Emma forces a weak smile for her son. "C'mon, kid, let's get out of the way." The urge to bolt is strong, but she can't very well take off running with Henry right there.

"Emma!" This time it's not a broken plea, but an order she tries to ignore and can't. She turns just in time to see him throw his reins to David and swing out of the saddle with a grace she can't help but admire – but hasn't that always been the case with him?

He jogs over and Emma struggles to breathe, to not dig her nails into Henry's shoulder where her hand rests protectively. "Do you truly intend to just walk away again?" Killian demands, his voice hoarse and eyes wild.

" _I_ walked away? I wasn't the one who…" Emma stops, takes a deep breath and glances down at her son. He's old enough to understand too much, and she won't have this conversation in front of him. "I need to make Henry's dinner. Henry, go wash up. I'll be there in a minute." He looks like he wants to argue with her, but he's a good kid and he goes.

"I'll wait," Killian says once Henry is out of earshot, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. He's planted himself to the spot, stance wide and stubborn. The fire in his eyes reminds her of how he used to look at her, not with barely contained rage as he is now, but with passion and longing.

Those eyes of his could burn her from across a room, once. Nothing about that has changed.

But everything else has.

She sighs to cover her churning emotions, gesturing toward the stable David has led both horses into, struggling to conceal the tremor crawling along her arm. "Did you and David come in one car?"

"Aye, but…"

"I don't have time to drive you back, and I'm sure he needs to get home to his family." Emma's lips form a thin, hard line as she stares at the dirt at her feet, praying her voice doesn't shake as badly as her hands.

 _What are you doing?_

 _It won't work. You learned that the first time. Better to send him away now. You barely survived this time. You have Henry to think about._

"I'll come back later."

"It's almost a two hour drive. Each way."

"I'm aware."

She looks up then, really looks up into his eyes. They're filled with determination she's seen before, and she knows come hell or high water, he's going to make her have this conversation. It doesn't matter how many excuses she comes up with – eventually he'll corner her.

"You really want to drive back out here tonight?" she finally asks, a last ditch effort as she shoves her hands in her pockets. She stares over his shoulder at the long shadows on the paddocks cast by the late afternoon sun, avoiding his gaze.

"What I want is to go back to that hotel room in Inverness and do it all over again. What I want is for you to have called me back one of the hundreds of times I bloody tried to reach you after you left. But aye, I will settle for driving back here tonight so we may have a conversation that is a damnably long time overdue." Tension radiates from him, a simmering anger burning just below the surface of his words. He's watching her when she looks into his eyes, intense as she's ever seen him. "I won't let you disappear again, Emma. Not without giving me a bloody good reason."

"You don't get to _let_ me do anything. I don't belong to you anymore," she says quietly, glancing over her shoulder toward the small cabin she and Henry call home. She _refuses_ to belong to anyone but herself these days. Being a mother means putting her son above everything, and to do that, she can't be anyone's but Henry's.

"Look me in the eye and say it."

Her eyes snap back to his, and she takes a deep breath, struggling with the words because she can't do this _again_. She can't get wrapped up in him and his beautiful words and his beautiful life; she can't fall into a million jagged pieces when it all goes wrong. "I…I don't…"

"You've always been a miserable liar," he says when she's let the silence drag too long, his words sharp. He scrubs his palm over his face, following her eyes to where David is lounging against the side of the barn, clearly intending to give them whatever space they require. "I should be back around ten. Will the lad have gone to bed by then?"

"Yeah." Emma sighs in defeat, gesturing to the cabin Henry disappeared into. "That one's ours."

"Promise me you won't run off before I'm able to return."

Of everything he's said to her in the last ten minutes, that's what breaks her heart the most – the fear and frustration she hears in his voice – and the certain knowledge she can't give him what he wants.

She couldn't do it before and she can't do it now.

"Where would I go?" It's barely a whisper, and she doesn't even mean to say it aloud, but the blistering stare she receives in reply tells her he has opinions on the matter. Emma starts to turn away, unable to stand the look he's giving her for another minute. "David is waiting," she says, gesturing toward the barn with her eyes on the dirt.

"Aye." He turns to go, and she doesn't know if it's a promise or a threat, but she nods anyway.

He's gone two steps before he turns back to her, a curse on his lips, his eyes molten. She should step back, should walk away, but she's frozen to the spot as he lunges for her, his hand twisting into her hair and keeping her in place. He hauls her up against him, and she knows in that split second what's coming, but she still isn't prepared for the brutal kiss he delivers. He's holding her too tightly, his grip on her hair almost painful, but she's powerless in his arms, responding instantly. She tries to keep up, but he's a man possessed, his teeth nipping at her lips. She presses closer, his other hand sliding from her hip across her bottom to keep her anchored against him, and they must be giving anyone watching quite the show but _she doesn't care_.

He breaks apart from her as suddenly as he grabbed her, and she's struggling to catch her breath as he steps away. "That's the first bloody thing I should have done." His voice is ragged, but there's a trace of the old bravado in his smirk. "Later, Swan."

This time, there's no question – it's a promise.

She just nods, her fingers on her nearly bruised lips as he walks away. She turns back to the cabin and tries not to think of any of what's just happened – or what _will_ happen, when he returns.

* * *

Killian's hands are clenched so tightly at his sides he nearly expects the bones to snap. He stalks toward David, every muscle in his body tensed against the desperate urge to return to Emma's side, to tell David to go home without him, to stay until she bloody _listens_ to him.

To not let her out of his sight until he's certain she won't disappear the moment he turns his back.

"Ready to go?" David eyes him as though he's a bomb about to explode, and Killian doesn't trust himself to speak. He nods in response, pivoting toward the car. He shouldn't, but he glances over his shoulder at Emma, her messy braid swinging between her stiff shoulders as she walks away.

She's only walking toward her cabin, but panic claws at his throat anyway.

Swallowing thickly, he throws himself into the passenger seat of David's truck, folding his arms over his chest and pressing his head back into the seat. "Did you know she was going to be here?" he demands as soon as the door closes behind David, the key not even in the ignition. "Did you set me up without any bloody warning? I swear to you, Dave, if you–"

"I didn't know," David cuts in, leveling Killian with a look that's half contempt and half sympathy. "C'mon, man, if I knew she was here this whole time I would have told you."

Killian grunts an unintelligible response, and David has the good sense not to say anything, turning on the radio and keeping his eyes on the road.

But it's a long drive.

"Are you going to see her again?" David finally asks, his tone cautious and his gaze still firmly on the freeway before them.

"I'm going back tonight."

"Tonight?"

"That's what I bloody said."

David scowls at him, his fingers noticeably tightening on the steering wheel. "Look, I'd be pissed too, but if you can't be civil to me, how the hell are you going to be civil to her?"

"You're an irritating sot. Emma is…" He stares out the window, the mountains in the distance hazy in the fading light. It's a struggle to pick the words he wants, and in the end, all he can say is, "I love her."

"So getting back together is the goal?"

"I just bloody said I love her. What else would the goal be?"

"Considering how pissed you are…"

"Let me remind you of your _if she would just stop leaving the tea mugs everywhere_ rant of not one week prior."

"That is not the same." David pauses, then adds, "And it's a bad habit. Leo is going to be walking soon, and if he knocks himself in the head with one of those things…" He sighs, making a vague motion with one hand. "Never mind my marriage. If you want to fix things with Emma, you've got to calm down. You and I both know pushing her won't get you anywhere."

"She _left_. Over a bloody argument. She just left. And now she's been back in California all this bloody time and never said a word." Killian forces himself to stop, his temper rising. "If she disappears again…"

"Yeah, like I said, I'd be pissed too. But for what it's worth, I don't think she's going anywhere this time."

"Your crystal ball telling you that?"

David ignores the jab, gesturing toward the open freeway. "Look, you can go back out there guns blazing and argue with her. But, and I'm repeating myself here, it won't get you anywhere. That girl is still terrified and it's all over her face. And she has a kid to look after now."

"Is this the _now that I'm a father_ speech you've been saving up?"

David shrugs. "It changes you."

"You truly believe she won't run?" Killian asks after a lengthy silence, the hope he's been trying so very much to keep at bay making his chest tight.

"The two of you…you're stubborn. But she looks at you the same way she always has. I don't know how you fix it. I love my wife, and hell if I even know how to make her happy all the time. But _you_ know Emma."

"Yeah," Killian mutters. David is right, annoyingly enough. Emma won't respond to a display of temper. The woman has always tried his patience, but she's been worth it.

He spends the remaining hours in the car reminding himself of that, and by the time he turns down the ranch's long driveway, he's managed to swallow enough of his anger to believe the night will end much better than the day began.

* * *

Henry eyes Emma suspiciously when she enters, playing a video game on the couch. "Did he leave?"

"Yes," she says quietly, struggling to keep her composure in front of her son. She only gave him the barest of details when they were in Boston, but she can see how curious he is now. She's not even sure if Henry recognizes Killian – most of his movies haven't exactly been kid friendly.

"I can't believe you dated Killian Jones, Mom. I know you said famous but…" Henry shrugs, turning back to his video game.

Well, that answers that. "How do you know who Killian Jones is?" she asks with a nudge. "I'm not sure his movies are entirely appropriate for you."

Henry spares her a glance, and she can't help but smile because that little side-eye smirk is a look he gets from her. "No one paid attention to what I watched in Boston. I've seen R-rated movies before." He pulls a face, and she can't quite tell if it's for her or the game. "He doesn't seem so bad."

Emma sighs, plopping on the couch next to him and grabbing a controller. "He's not."

"So why did you break up? Is he here because he wants to get back together?"

"What's with all the questions, kid?"

Henry shrugs, his attention back on the game as Emma starts shooting aliens along with him. "He seems nice."

"Yeah," Emma mumbles, her eyes glued to the TV. She tries not to think about Killian coming back, tries to just focus on the video game and dinner and her nightly routine with Henry.

 _Can't I just stay up a little while longer?_

 _No, you've got school._

 _But Moooooom._

 _Henry. Bed._

It's just shy of ten when she sits down on the porch steps, wrapped in a thick sweatshirt against the chill in the spring night. She's armed with a beer in her hand and another sitting beside her should Killian want it, dread churning her stomach. Something stronger would be preferable, but she doesn't want him driving home soaked in rum – or finding an excuse to stay.

It took some getting used to, the stillness and silence of the ranch at night. They're so far from Los Angeles that the light pollution doesn't interfere with the endless stretch of stars above her on clear nights like tonight. There's a light breeze, and she can hear the rustle of the grass, the occasional nicker of the horses settling down for the night. A screen door creaks open and bangs shut, but then it's perfectly still for a moment before she hears the crunch of tires on gravel.

She tries not to flinch when the headlights sweep over her, knowing it's him even in the darkness as her pulse pounds in her ears. She squints as he cuts the lights, her eyes once again adjusting to the night as he gets out of the car and makes his way toward her. "Hi," she says quietly, offering up the beer without getting off the steps.

"Hi." He eyes her for a minute, like he wants to say something else, but in the end he simply takes a seat on the step beside her. Their thighs brush against one another as he drinks from the bottle she's handed him, and she bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep her gasp from escaping. He's changed into jeans and a T-shirt as though the night air doesn't bother him, and his hair is sticking out every which way, like he's spent the duration of the drive tugging on it. It's so familiar her heart aches, and she tightens her fingers on her beer bottle to keep from reaching for him. "Is your boy asleep?"

"Yes. He shouldn't wake up – the kid sleeps through anything."

"Aye." He's quieter than he was this afternoon, less angry, but there's pain in his eyes when he looks at her. "Are you happy?"

It's the last thing she expects him to ask, and it throws her. "I'm not unhappy," is the best answer she can come up with, once again staring off into the night rather than look at him.

"Were you, before? With me? Were you…happy, with me?" It's a tentative question, and she can hear his breath catch on the words.

 _Bloody hell, Emma. We said no fucking lies. I have never lied to you!_

"Yes," she whispers, her hands shaking as she takes another drink from her beer, struggling to hide the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She doesn't want to be like this with him, intimate and fragile and _honest_ , but she can't seem to put on the cool mask of indifference that's always served her in the past.

And she can't lie.

"Do you think you could be happy again?"

She does look at him then, searching his tense jaw and troubled eyes for something, anything that will give her an answer. "I don't know," she finally says, turning away before her face gives away how badly she _wants_ to be happy with him again. "My life is different now. I have Henry. I can't just think about myself."

"Do you know why I left that day?" He pauses for barely a second, not waiting for her to shake her head before he barrels on. "Milah – Gold's wife – when I met her, she never told me she was married. It wasn't until we were so far…I was in love with her. And then it was revealed she had a son and a husband, and a whole other life she was keeping hidden from me. She never intended to leave her husband – I was just a bit on the side, something to entertain her when he was too busy with his magazines." He stops, takes a deep breath and another long drink from his beer. "None of which you knew, and perhaps I should have told you. To discover you also had a son you never told me of…"

"I'm sorry." Her hand falls on his thigh, squeezing gently. "I wanted to tell you. I thought about it so many times. I just…" She shrugs, starting to draw her hand away, but he grabs it back, weaves his fingers through hers and squeezes.

"I wish you had stayed but another hour. We could have avoided all this."

"You left. It seemed appropriate to do the same."

"I went for a walk to cool off, Emma. I needed a bit of air to collect myself before I said something in a fit of temper I would regret. I didn't get on a plane and disappear into thin air." The anger creeps back in as he says it, but he doesn't let go of her hand. "I need to know why. You owe me that much."

* * *

She's silent, and he begins to think she won't answer, that he'll leave this ranch more broken than when he arrived. But softly, slowly, the words come.

"I'm going to tell you this once, and once only." She stops, eyes flickering to his as he nods his agreement before she continues. "You know I have no idea who my parents are. I grew up in a combination of foster homes and group homes. Some weren't so bad. Some were awful. It's part of why when I found out that Henry…"

She stops then, squeezes her eyes shut tight, her breaths uneven. He doesn't push, his thumb rubbing a soothing stroke over the back of her hand as he waits. The moment he lacked patience in the past cost him everything – he won't give into it now.

"I told you about Neal and the watches and how I went to jail. I didn't tell you I found out I was pregnant a month into my sentence. I gave Henry up, because I figured he would have a better shot at things without me. There was a family lined up, ready to take him. It wasn't going to be like it was for me, just dumped into the system. How he ended up where he did…" She trails off again, and he struggles not to let his fingers curl into a ball like he wants to. He hated the man before, this monster who hurt Emma, but to know the full truth of it makes him want to hit something.

Hard.

"Anyway, people have been walking out on me my entire life. I accepted Regina's offer because the money she wanted to pay me was a ticket out of a life where every day was a struggle, where maybe I could afford to buy myself a _home_ , and even if it was just me, I would have a shot at happiness. I didn't count on…I didn't mean to get…" She wipes at the moisture that escapes her eye, an unsuccessful attempt to control her tears. His heart aches to reach for her, to pull her into his arms, but there is nothing about the stiffness of her shoulders that makes him think it would be welcome. "When you walked out of that hotel room... I tried to stay, to wait, but that hour went by, and you didn't answer your phone, and all I could think was _not again_."

"I didn't have my phone with me. It was still on silent from when Regina kept calling. I forgot it on the bed." It's difficult to keep the words quiet, to swallow the hurt and the anger that wants to let them be sharp as a knife. He sighs, scratching behind his ear before taking another swig of beer. "I tried to call you the moment I realized it, and I must have called a hundred times more. Why didn't you answer my calls? I left you message after message." His temper flares all over again at the memory, the desperate attempts to reach her over and over, her infuriating silence.

"I know. I deleted them. I couldn't..."

"You didn't listen to _any_ of them?" he interrupts, her words tearing the wound open all over again. "Bloody hell, Swan, I left you dozens of messages. I _begged_ , and I…" He forces himself to stop, forces himself to loosen his grip on her fingers as he realizes his grip is likely crushing them. All the late nights, the frantic calls...

"Why?" he asks, clenching his teeth to keep his voice level. "I didn't just call you one bloody time and give up. How did you not know I was desperate to talk to you?"

She starts to pull her hand away, but he only tightens his fingers on hers, staring intently at her when she looks him in the eye. He's not willing to let her go so easily this time, and the sooner she understands that, the better.

"I… I knew if I listened to them, I would… I would cave. I would get back on a plane and go back to Scotland. And I would be terrified every minute of every day that you were going to walk away from me again, and my son would still be god only knows where. So I deleted the messages." She takes a deep breath, staring down at their entwined fingers. "Then the press got a hold of my number, and I had to get a new phone. I needed to focus on Henry, so it seemed best not to look back." She smiles, a poor imitation of the real thing and takes another sip of her beer, looking away to hide the shimmer of tears in her eyes. "I did try to call you once, on Christmas."

Killian winces, remembering the unavailable missed call he had assumed was a wrong number or some sort of telemarketing call. If only he had answered – if only they could have put this all behind themselves months ago.

"You didn't leave a message." He doesn't mean it to be an accusation, but it comes out that way, anyway. If he had but known… if she had given him the chance, he would have flown to Boston for the three day break in filming, would have gotten down on his knees and begged instead of drinking himself into a stupor.

"I tried to reach you several times through your attorney, but she was...very protective of you," he finally says when it becomes clear she isn't going to answer him, isn't going to defend her decision.

"She was. I...I wasn't in a place where we could have had this conversation."

"She said you ripped up the check I sent."

"I did." There's a flash of irritation in her eyes, and he can feel the tension ratchet up with her body so close to his. "Of all things...why the hell did you do that?"

He shrugs, taking another sip of his beer to avoid answering immediately. "I was desperate. I thought perhaps the money would help you with Henry, or that you would understand I still wanted to be a part of your life…"

"By paying me off?" she cuts in, bitterness making the words sting. "How could you not know things between us...it hadn't been about the money for a very long time. My feelings for you were real."

"Were?" He forces himself not to choke on the word, to watch her carefully as she picks at the label on her beer with her thumbnail. "Did you not...do you not feel we should be together anymore?"

She doesn't answer right away, avoiding his gaze with her eyes firmly on the bottle in her hands. "I did think about it, after the case was over," she finally says, and he swears her voice is shaking. "I put Henry to bed that night, and I thought to myself, _maybe there's a chance._ And then I woke up, and there you were, kissing another woman."

"That wasn't real. I wasn't..." He struggles to keep the hurt out of his voice, rage at Gold, at the tabloids, at himself rising to the surface once more. "How could you imagine that I would…" He stops again, staring up at the endless expanse of sky as though the answer is somehow written in the stars. "We had to rehearse the scene because I couldn't get it right. I couldn't do my _job_ because it required kissing another woman. Bloody hell, Emma, _she_ told me to think of you and–"

"So you kissed another woman while thinking of me? What the hell?"

"You are twisting my words. I only meant that–"

"It doesn't matter," she interrupts again, pain in her eyes for the split second she looks at him. "We weren't together. We _aren't_ together. You moved on. I don't have any right… it's all right."

"It is most certainly not all right. I haven't bloody moved on! I have thought of little else but you these long months. How could you even _think_ …" He stops, gritting his teeth and fighting to breathe evenly before he begins again. "That photo…Gold used that, made it look like something it wasn't." He sighs, attempting to rein in his temper, remembering all too vividly how difficult it had been to focus on his job when all he wanted to do was get on the next flight out of town.

"Well, it's over and done now," she says after a long silence, her voice strangled as though the words stick in her throat. They've been apart for months, but he still knows her – still knows the sound of her voice when she's trying to convince herself of something as much as him.

"Is that really what you believe?"

"What I believe?"

"That things between us are over and done?"

"Aren't they?"

He doesn't answer, but he does let go of her hand. He can tell she's still struggling not to let her emotions show, the pain in her eyes flickering in and out, but he's done talking. He plucks the beer bottle from her hand, carefully setting it on the porch behind them along with his own.

She watches him, wary, but she doesn't stop him as he slides his palms along her jaw, his fingers reaching over her cheeks as he leans in and kisses her, a gentle, barely there kiss that is so different from the violent passion of the afternoon that his throat tightens.

It's not what he wants. He wants to crush her into his arms, brand her with his lips and never let her go. But the skittish look is back in her eyes, and pushing Emma has never ended well for him in the past.

His thumb brushes away the tear tracking down her cheek as they break apart, and it's impossible to swallow the gut-wrenching sadness in his bones. This seems too much like goodbye, and he _can't_ have this be how things end. "I love you, Emma. I'll always love you. For me, it will _never_ be over and done."

Emma says nothing, but she doesn't pull away, doesn't shrink from his touch as he gathers her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her hair. He can't say how long they sit there together, the night still around them, but the longer it goes on, the brighter hope burns.

"You should go," she finally whispers, pulling away. She shakes her head, like she's not quite sure she's awake, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand. She shrugs off his arm, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. "I've got to be up early with Henry."

He freezes, the quiet night only amplifying the rush of blood in his ears at what is clearly a dismissal and a light snuffing out. "Go?" he repeats back, staring at her in disbelief. "How… I have no wish to _go_."

"You need to."

"Like hell I do." David's words of caution ring in his ears and he should stop, should bite his tongue and clench his teeth and swallow the angry words, but he can't. There's too many months of hurt that have festered into anger, a deep fury boiling over as he watches her try to close herself off, relaying each and every brick of the walls he's fought to overcome. "We have much yet to say to one another, you and I. I won't be dismissed like a naughty child. No running this time, darling. You owe me this much."

"I don't owe you anything," she snaps back, the words cracking like a whip. " _You_ walked out, Killian. You didn't so much as give me a chance to explain. You didn't consider for a second how _I_ felt, _my_ life splashed across the tabloids because of _your_ past with that asshole." Her voice is low, but there's no mistaking the cut of the words, a rage building in her eyes to match his own.

"I've told you…"

"Yeah, I know. Gold's wife had secrets. You've said." She pauses, eyes narrowing as she presses against the railing. "I told you a long time ago you had the power to ruin me. I hate that I was right. I hate that I gave you that power. I won't do it again. I can't."

"We had an argument, Emma. I expect we'll have more. You can't…"

"No," she cuts in, getting to her feet and swiping angrily at her tears. "We won't. There will be no arguments because you are getting back in your car, and you're going back to LA. I can't… I'm someone's mother. I can't afford to…" Her voice catches, a sob breaking through as she hugs her arms around herself, jerking away when he reaches for her.

"Emma…"

"No, Killian. Not this time. _Go_."

He stares at her, disbelief and hurt and anger rattling against his ribs in his tight chest. She says she wants him gone, and she says she _can't_ , but she kissed him back – not only moments ago, but in the afternoon as well. "As you wish," he finally says, barely able to restrain himself. All he wants to do is push her up against the porch railing and kiss her until she stops fighting against the happiness that's slipped through their fingers once before.

She doesn't say anything, stubbornly staring off into the night in spite of the tears running unchecked down her cheeks. She's as easy to read as ever, pain and fear pinching her features when he looks back.

"Bloody stubborn woman," he mutters to himself as he gets in the car, glaring through the windshield at her as he turns the key in the ignition, cursing Gold, cursing Emma, cursing the night.

* * *

"Let's go, Henry. You're going to be late." Emma's voice rasps past her lips, hoarse from a sleepless night spent with her face pressed into a pillow to muffle her sobs. Last night her fear stopped her, but in the morning's light, she's terrified she made the wrong choice. She's exhausted, and she must sound as awful as she feels since Granny didn't so much as question her when she called to say she was sick and needed to stay in bed today.

Henry slurps down the rest of his juice, grabbing his bag as Emma scoops up her car keys. He's been eying her suspiciously all morning, and she can't entirely blame him. She knows her eyes are red and glassy, her skin pale and lips chapped.

She also nearly poured orange juice into his cereal.

"Did he hurt you?" he asks quietly, stopping her dead in her tracks as she stares back at him.

"No," she manages to choke out. "Allergies, kid. That's all."

Henry clearly doesn't believe her, and she wonders if he's inherited her natural ability to spot a lie a mile away. "I heard you talking to him last night. Why did you make him leave?"

"I…" Emma stops, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory of Killian's face in the moonlight, the pain in his eyes. "It's complicated, but you don't have to worry about it. He's back in LA." She has to struggle not to wince.

It was the right decision. For Henry. For her.

He looks like he wants to argue, but she's already shoving a pair of sunglasses over her swollen eyes and ushering him out the door. It isn't until she nearly trips over her own kid that she notices the gleam of burgundy paint on the car parked outside. "I don't think he listened to you."

Relief washes over her, pure and simple relief at Killian slouched in the driver's seat, asleep as far as she can tell. She doesn't _want_ to be relieved – she wants to be angry he didn't listen to her, angry he blatantly refused to do as she asked. But after a night spent crying over the man, the familiar sight of his messy dark hair only makes her ache for him all the more, damn the consequences.

She told him to leave and he _stayed_.

Emma takes a deep breath, steering Henry away from Killian's car and toward her own, parked on the other side of the barn with the rest of the staff. "We're late." Whatever Killian's presence means or doesn't, she has to get her son to school.

"But, Mom, he's…"

"Henry, really, we don't have time for this. I'll deal with him after I drop you off."

"Is that a promise, Swan?"

She whips around to stare at him, his eyes blinking against the bright sun as he gets out of the car, leaning back against it with his arms folded over his chest. He stares at her expectantly, his gaze narrowing on the keys in her hand. "I have to bring Henry to school," is the only answer she can come up with under his intense examination.

"And then you will return?"

She's grateful for the sunglasses hiding her eyes as she nods, unable to speak as the tears rise once again and she quickly turns away without another word. It's a tense ride to school with Henry's curious stare, but she grips the steering wheel and watches the road.

She is supposed to be making Henry's life less complicated, not more.

"You should listen to him, Mom," Henry says as they're pulling into the school parking lot.

She sighs, turning to face him as she pulls into the drop off. "Henry... "

"He slept in his car. He obviously wants to talk to you. Maybe….maybe he could make you less sad."

Emma's heart breaks at her son's words, impulsively leaning across the car to hug him. "I'm not sad, Henry. I like our life together." It's not exactly a lie – finding Henry and getting to know him is something she wouldn't give up for anything.

But she's not happy either.

"I'll see you at three," she calls after him as he gets out of the car. Henry waves back at her before walking over to a group of his friends. She can't help but watch for a moment – regardless of her messy emotional state, she was right when she told Killian that Henry _is_ happy. That's what matters.

The drive back to the ranch isn't a long one, but it's enough for Emma's stomach to knot and her hands to shake. What is she supposed to say to him this morning after their conversation last night? How is she supposed to explain that no matter how relieved she was to see him when she looked up, it's fear that makes her palms sweat now, fear that he'll leave again, that she won't be enough, that Gold will do everything in his power to ruin their lives.

That he's already hurt her once and she's not sure she can do it again no matter how desperately she misses him.

Killian is sitting on the steps when she returns, his back to the railing and his legs neatly crossed at the ankles. He looks like hell upon closer inspection, his own eyes red and the stubble coating his jaw wild. "Back so soon?" he asks, a hint of sarcasm in the words, as though he expected her to avoid him for much longer.

"The school is only a few miles down the road."

"Will they be requiring you this morning?"

"I called out sick."

"You're ill?"

"Something like that," she mutters before she can stop herself.

Neither of them makes a move toward the other, Killian on the stairs and Emma standing in the dirt, but they can't remain here forever. "What are you doing here?" she finally asks, shoving her hands into her pockets to keep them occupied. "We agreed you would go back to LA."

"I didn't agree to a bloody thing." He's not attempting to hide his anger this morning, and the words sting. "I won't give up on you that easily, love. I won't give up on us. I don't understand how you can."

"What's different now?"

"Now?"

"Yes, now. What's so different now than it was before? I was in Boston for months. You could have tried then." She knows the words aren't fair as soon as she's said them, knows she's _looking_ for a fight, but she can't stop herself. She can feel her resistance crumbling.

"I bloody well did try! You were the one who refused to return my calls, who instructed your attorney to tell me you were unavailable. You were the one who couldn't do me the courtesy of listening to a single message I left you." He gets to his feet as he seethes, closing the space between them until his boots are inches from hers. "What is it going to take for you to understand? I would have given it up for you. All of it."

 _He can't possibly mean..._

He takes a shaky breath, but his eyes don't leave hers, dark and intense. "I was determined to get to that airport, to stop you from getting on that plane come hell or high water. Regina stopped me. And in the days after, I thought that my presence might somehow hurt your chance of getting Henry back. I had hoped that once you had your son back, once the media circus died down, that there would be time for us." His jaw tightens, eyes flashing with hurt. "But you bloody took off again before I even knew it without so much as a trace."

"Those photos…"

"Aye, those photos," he says bitterly, rubbing his eyes. "Emma, _please…_ "

He's so close, _too_ close. When he looks at her like he is now, emotion flooding his eyes, his voice hoarse, it's harder to remember all the reasons she sent him away last night, all the reasons why it isn't a good idea to fall back into things with him.

"I slept in your bed the night I went to get my things," she blurts out, her eyes burning behind her sunglasses. She's not even sure why she's telling him this, now, but the words continue to fall from her lips. "I left in the middle of the night because I knew if I stayed until morning, I would never be able to leave."

He doesn't say anything, but he does reach for her, tentative and soft as he pulls her sunglasses off, his thumb brushing away the tears she can't seem to stop. "I will always come back for you. You just have to let me."

"Why did you stay last night?"

"I feared you would run again. I hadn't made it off the property before I turned around."

Emma stares up into his eyes, the confession tearing at her heart. Her hands move of their own accord, palms flattening against his chest as she leans in, drawn to him as she always has been.

He doesn't wait for her to go any further, crashing into her. His lips are salty, whether from her tears or his, she can't be certain, but he is pure need as his mouth moves against hers, a low moan escaping him as they breathe out together, his fingers in her hair, the other arm anchored around her hips.

"I can't lose you again," she whispers, her fingers clenching in his T-shirt. "I can't…"

"You won't." He moves in again, his kiss desperate, the press of his body against hers a plea. "Inside," he mumbles against her mouth, tugging her with him as he steps backward.

Emma realizes with a sudden flush of her cheeks they are still standing in front of the stairs of her cabin, exposed to anyone who may wander by. She told Granny she was sick, and now here she is kissing Killian for all the world to see. She leans back, fighting to catch her breath and her thoughts.

He doesn't release her, his palm cupping her jaw as he waits for her decision. Opening that door won't just take them inside her small cabin – it's letting him back into her heart, taking a chance he means what he says and won't walk out on her.

A chance that she can be enough.

Her breath falters as she brings her eyes to his, sees the mingling fear and love and hesitant hope staring back at her.

He walked out of that hotel room so many months ago, and it broke her. But now, if she says no, if she pushes him away, she's going to spend the rest of her life missing this man – she's going to break them both.

"Okay."

* * *

 **Many thanks to onceuponsomechaos for taking time out of her vacation to beta this chapter. Thanks, darling!**

 **I head off for vacation myself on Friday. Not sure what the wifi situation will be, so next chapter is TBD. There will likely be more missing scenes / outtakes between now and then as i work my way through the requests. The first and second ones are already posted if you missed them.**

 **Three more chapters and an epilogue to go!**


	22. Chapter 22

His mouth is back on hers instantly, and they're moving, tripping over each other and the stairs. Emma fumbles with the door, struggling to get it unlocked as Killian's teeth drag over her neck. They tumble inside the moment the lock gives, Killian spinning her around in a breathless rush. Her back slams into the door as it shuts, a distant realization nearly lost in the haze of their kiss.

There is so much they need to say to each other, so many things to figure out, but that will come later. Now, Killian's hips pin her to the door, months of pent-up hurt and longing and lust unleashing in one kiss after another, an unrelenting press of lips and mingled breaths that leaves her heart racing.

It's too intense to form coherent thoughts, flashes of memory mingling with an all-consuming need to get closer, to feel every inch of him against her as though they haven't spent months apart – as though she hasn't missed him so fiercely her heart splintered in her chest even as she told herself she was fine.

The kiss breaks as she yanks his shirt over his head, but the moment his arms are once again free, he lifts her against the door, drawing her leg around his hip. Emma moves the other without prompting, clawing at his shoulders for leverage as he grinds against her.

Killian is all desperate desire, little finesse in his touch. There is nothing delicate or soft about how he kneads her skin, his hands roaming over her breasts, roughly pinching and tugging and _taking_ – but he's not alone. Emma's teeth sink into his shoulder as he rolls his hips into hers again, her fingers blindly struggling to unbutton his jeans.

She needs him as badly as he needs her. She missed so very many things about Killian – the softness of his eyes in the middle of the night, the way he folded his arms around her when she least expected it, the steadiness of his presence – but she missed this too, the way he sets her pulse racing in a way no one else ever has.

Cursing, he bats her hands away, his lips on her neck as he reaches for her zipper instead. "My turn, love," her growls against her throat, the roughness in his voice urging her to press closer, but he's a man on a mission, nudging her legs to the ground.

Emma complies, fully expecting him to make quick work of her jeans, but he drops down to his knees with them. "Killian…" is the most she manages to say before he pulls one of her legs free, nipping at the inside of her thigh before tugging her leg over his shoulder. A rush of anticipation barrels through her as his intention becomes clear, her clothes forgotten in a tangle around the foot still on the floor.

It's her turn to swear, his mouth suddenly between her legs, tongue and teeth and lips and fingers relentless against tender flesh. There's no escaping him, his hand on her hip anchoring her to the door. Her head falls back, her eyes squeezed shut as her fingers find purchase in his hair, the other hand clinging to the door frame for balance as her thighs grow weak.

"Killian…" His name comes out as a low moan, begging him to stop, begging him to continue. In response, he curls his fingers inside her and her world explodes.

But he doesn't stop, continuing to stoke her with his tongue all the way through the aftershocks, her body so sensitive it verges on painful. Just when she thinks she can't take it anymore, he stops, leaning back to look up at her through lust-soaked eyes as he pulls her clothes free from her other foot.

He's lifting her again before she realizes it, her thoughts hazy and his jeans rough on her thighs. She reaches between them, struggling with his belt as he turns into the room. The kitchen table, still littered with breakfast, is the closest flat surface, and Emma sweeps her arm across it as they approach, dimly aware of the clattering dishes as her back hits the wood, tugging Killian down by his belt with her.

"Bloody hell," he gasps out as Emma's fingers close around him, his jeans and underwear only shoved halfway off. She wants to savor it, touching him again, his skin hot against her, but she's too lost to slow down now, and Killian is right there with her. He doesn't bother removing her shirt, yanking both it and her bra below her breast as he draws her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard as he thrusts into her with a single stroke.

Emma wraps her legs around his waist, struggling to keep up with the erratic and frantic pace he sets. It's never been quite like this between them, pure need unleashed without restraint, but she doesn't care. After so long apart, after so many angry words, it's almost a relief to not talk beyond muttered curses and gasps, to simply _feel_ as they reclaim each other.

Though in this moment, it seems a lot more like Killian claiming her as her fingers grip the edge of the table, holding on for dear life as his hips slam into hers.

It's over almost as fast as it started, her blood pounding in her ears and her legs shaking from the power of the release tearing through her veins. Killian's breathing is ragged as he leans his forehead to her shoulder, his hands braced on the table as he catches his breath.

"I'm sorry, love, I…"

Emma stops the apology before he can finish it, her kiss soft. "Don't," she says quietly, threading her fingers into his damp hair. He has nothing left to apologize for, every word he's said to her since he reappeared yesterday an apology and a plea all wrapped up into one.

If anything, she needs to apologize to _him_. But the words won't come, her thoughts a babbling mess.

He takes a deep breath, pulling back and helping her to sit up, gently adjusting her top before setting himself to rights. "Quite the mess we made," he finally says, one eyebrow raised as he surveys the spilled orange juice and overturned dishes.

Emma bursts out laughing, a release of pent-up emotion at the nearly baffled expression he wears. There's something about the flush in his cheeks and the set of his eyes that tells her he wasn't planning on things happening quite the way they did.

"Good thing I was cheap and bought plastic." She smiles to cover the immediate awkwardness the words bring because she wasn't too cheap – she was too broke.

She slides off the table, shuffling across the room to retrieve her clothes from the floor, dressing with her back to him, embarrassed and flustered now that her veins aren't on fire with lust. She doesn't hear him move, and she jumps when his arm comes around her waist, his lips on her shoulder.

"Never leave me again." His voice catches as he weaves his fingers with hers, tugging her back against his chest as though he can't bear for an inch to separate them. It slams into Emma with a sudden, heart-breaking clarity – people have been leaving him as long as they've been leaving her.

"I'm sorry I ran." The words come easily now, a rush of emotion swelling in her chest. She turns in his arms, his bare skin a familiar comfort as he has yet to put his shirt back on – some things never change. His grip tightens around her almost instantly, and it's a struggle not to wince. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you on my own."

"I reacted badly. I should not have…"

"I missed you," Emma whispers, her fingers trailing over his cheek. It's hard to get the words out, but it's a confession she needs to make for them both. "God, Killian, I missed you so damn much."

He presses a kiss to her hair, but he doesn't loosen his hold on her, even as she nudges him toward the couch. He's barely willing to let her go long enough for them to arrange themselves, Killian wedging his shoulders into the corner as Emma curls into him, her cheek on his shoulder.

The silence between them is thick, Killian's touch still edged with a possessive desperation that only makes the guilt sit heavier in the pit of her stomach. But in spite of it, Emma grows drowsy in his arms, the long night without sleep catching up to her as the adrenaline fades.

She wakes with a start, Killian's voice rough as he mumbles, "Easy, love."

"How long have I been asleep?" she asks, trying to judge the time by the shadows. It feels like it's been hours, her body stiff.

He shifts, drawing his phone out of his pocket and glancing at the time. "It's just past two." He drops the phone onto the arm of the couch, turning back to her. "When do you have to go get the lad?"

"I have to be there at three." She strokes her fingers along his jaw, a thousand memories consuming her all at once – lying on the floor in front of the fire, sprawled out in the grass watching the planes pass overhead, his head in her lap and her fingers running along his scalp while he sighed with contentment.

"Come home with me." It's obvious he's trying to keep the request light, but his voice shakes. He avoids her eyes, pressing a kiss to her shoulder instead, then another to her neck. "Pack up Henry and your things and come _home_."

"It's not that simple." She frowns, rubbing her thumb along his jaw as he pulls back to look at her again. "Granny has been good to us. I can't just leave without warning. And Henry has friends here, and a school he likes." She sighs, pulling her hands back into her lap. "I don't want him going to some school where he's never going to fit in. Out here, no one cares about him or me, our past, our connection to you. You know LA is different. I want…I want you, Killian, but Henry…he's important. I have to make sure he's happy."

"So we split our time between the house in the hills and a house here."

"Just like that?"

"Aye, just like that. I need you, Emma. I need you baking cupcakes at midnight in our kitchen, and sleeping in our bed, and standing beside me at bloody press events. I just need you."

She doesn't miss that he says _our_ , like she's never left. She doesn't miss the pain in his voice, the desperate hope that she's agreed to come back to him, to _be_ with him.

Even after their physical reunion, he's still afraid she's not all in.

He leans down as she presses closer, the kiss they share needy, Killian's fingers knotting in her hair, keeping her where he wants her until he releases her. He hesitates, his eyes on her swollen lips, but then he reaches into his pocket. With a shaky breath, he lets the delicate silver chain drop from his fingers. "I brought this…I thought perhaps you might want it back…I hoped…"

Emma reaches for it tentatively, running her fingers over the smooth silver much like she did all those months ago, and she has to force herself to remember to breathe. "I regretted leaving it behind."

Killian doesn't answer, but he does reach behind her neck, his fingers fumbling with the clasp as the pendant falls back into place. The weight of it is familiar in spite of its long absence, but it settles her in a way she didn't know she needed.

He's always good at saying the right thing – and it's not that Emma doesn't believe him – but she's been a woman of action her entire life.

The fact that he even brought it along…that he was so certain they could find a way back to each other…it makes her throat tighten with tears she doesn't want to cry. There's been enough of that to last a lifetime. She kisses him again and again, not trusting herself to speak.

"Nothing I said that day has changed." He brushes his fingers over the pendent, kissing her hair and twining their fingers together. He smiles, a tinge of sadness in his eyes. "Whatever we have to do to make this work, I will do it. I need you. You just have to be willing to try, love. I know it won't always be easy. But I will _always_ love you."

"You mean every word of that, don't you?" She stares up at him in wonder. His eyes are a deep, intense blue, filled with desperate hope and love.

"Aye." It's a simple response, but it's the one that cements everything in place for her. Everything between them has been leading to this moment, and when she says it, she doesn't hesitate.

"Do you know when I fell in love with you?" His eyes widen ever so slightly at the question, the hand on her waist tightening, and she has to stop herself from kissing him again before she can get the words out.

He shakes his head ever so slightly. "Tell me." It's a hoarse demand, the words thick, as though they're stuck in his throat.

"Do you remember the night with the chocolate frosting? Where we sort of got into a fight over who could make the bigger mess of the other?"

"That was...that was so long ago."

"I know," she whispers, her palm sliding along his jaw. "I wouldn't admit it then. Not that night. Not the night you kissed me because you were jealous, or that night you told the entire world you loved me. I wanted to tell you, before Scotland, in Scotland, but we still had so many secrets and…" The rest of her words are lost in his kiss, a tender kiss that simmers with heat, but doesn't scald her like the earlier ones.

"I love you." The words are firmly said when they break apart, his eyes opening slowly to watch her with awe in his gaze. "Figuring this out is going to be hard, and I have to put Henry first, but we made a promise not to lie to each other a long time ago. So I love you. I have for a long time."

"Bloody hell, you have no idea how long I've waited for you to say that." He buries his face in her hair, his voice raw. His shoulders are rigid, every muscle in his body tense as he holds her so tightly it's almost painful.

"I'm sorry I made you wait." She presses a kiss to his shoulder, the only skin she can reach in his tight hold. "I have to get Henry soon. Are you… do you need to go back to LA tonight?"

"Are you certain you can't come with me?"

"Killian…"

He sighs, running his fingers through her hair as he pulls back slightly. "I admit, I was in a bit of a state when I left. I should run back and fetch some clean clothes." He stops, scratching behind his ear before looking back at her, something hesitant and awkward in his eyes. "Perhaps we could go get Henry, and have dinner in the city before returning?"

"It's a lot of driving. He has school tomorrow." Emma frowns, twisting her fingers in the hem of her shirt. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Do you… do you not wish for me to return tonight?"

"No!" She surprises herself with the fierceness of the response, her fingers curling tightly around his shoulder. "No," she repeats more calmly, the thumb of her other hand running over his bottom lip. "I definitely want you to come back. I just...I'll be here when you get back. I promise."

He nods, but she sees the flash of fear in his eyes, the uncertainty that she means it when she says she won't run. And when he asks his next question, Emma's heart nearly breaks in two all over again, the insecurity in his voice crushing. "Is your...will Henry be all right with me returning to your life?"

"Don't worry about Henry. We can talk to him together when you get back tonight. Okay?" He offers a tiny smile, a poor imitation of the real thing that has Emma pulling his mouth to hers, praying the press of her body is enough to convince him where her words have failed.

They're nearly out the door when he stops her, fingers curling around her wrist before she turns the knob. "I'll be here," she says softly in response to the frown he wears, running her fingers along his brows. "I promise, Killian."

"It's not that." It's only then she notices him toying with his phone in his other hand. "I…"

"Give me your phone."

He smiles as she takes the phone from him, scrolling to her name and updating her phone number. It's a struggle not to give into the crushing weight of guilt the action brings on, but Killian visibly relaxes when she hands his phone back. "You'll answer this time?" he says lightly, but the undercurrent of insecurity rings loudly.

"I'll always answer." She brushes a kiss against his lips, soft and gentle, before squeezing his hand. "I'm going to be late if I don't go now. The sooner you leave the sooner you're back."

"Aye."

He texts her ten minutes later to ask if she would like him to bring anything back from the city.

 _Just you_ , she types back quickly before Henry reaches the car, tucking her phone back into her pocket. "Hey, kid, how was school?"

* * *

It's late by the time he gets back, an accident on the freeway turning a two hour drive into a four hour drive. Emma is waiting for him, and the welcoming smile on her face is a balm on his bruised heart.

"Bloody traffic," he mumbles into her hair, wrapping her in his arms and taking pleasure in the fact he can. "Has Henry gone to bed?"

"He knows something is up, but I told him we would talk in the morning before school. I finally convinced him to go to bed twenty minutes ago."

"Perhaps we should do the same," he says softly, the barest hint of suggestion in the words. She only smiles, taking his hand and leading him back to her bedroom.

Killian wakes in the pale light of dawn, slipping out of her bed to pull on a pair of pajama pants from his bag, cautious of Henry's presence in the small cabin. The boy seems to be old enough to know to knock on a closed door, but he would rather their formal introduction be a touch more...formal.

Emma stirs, reaching for him even before she's fully awake, and his heart squeezes at the sight. "Morning, love," he murmurs, leaning over her and brushing her hair out of her eyes before kissing her cheek.

"Bed." Her voice is thick with sleep, the word barely discernible through her muttering, but bloody hell, is he happy to hear it. He's missed everything about this woman, including her inability to form coherent words first thing in the morning.

He chuckles, sliding back beneath the sheets with his discarded T-shirt in hand. "As much as it pains me to say it, you should put this on before your lad walks in on us."

Her eyes blink open sleepily at him, and she smiles, wrestling into his shirt before curling against his chest. "Thoughtful," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his skin.

"Mom?" Henry's voice calls through the door nearly on cue, and Emma breaks apart from Killian with an apologetic smile.

"Just a minute kid," she replies, pressing one more quick kiss to Killian's lips before throwing the blankets back and fishing a pair of pants out of a drawer. "Ready?"

He nods, getting out of bed and coming to stand beside her. "Perhaps you should return my shirt?"

"Oh. Right." Emma flushes, quickly stripping off his T-shirt and replacing it with one of her own. The fact that he's thought of it when she hasn't is a comfort, and when he reaches for her hand, she threads her fingers through his without hesitation.

Henry is in the kitchen, and he grins when he sees their joined hands. "So he _did_ come to get you back."

Emma glances at Killian, who much to her surprise has a pink tinge to his cheeks. "Is that all right with you, kid?" she asks her son, watching Henry carefully for any sign of hesitation or dismay.

"Can we visit movie sets?"

Beside her, Killian chuckles, his grip tightening on her hand. "Of course. I'd be honored to have you and your mother visit."

"Cool. What's for breakfast?"

Emma has to hold back a laugh. It's so simple for Henry, and perhaps it should be for her too. She can feel Killian relax beside her, and he's grinning when their eyes meet. "What do you say, Swan? Pancakes?"

"I do have bacon."

"Shall I make the pancakes this time?"

"I suppose." Emma nudges him with her hip, reaching into the cabinet above them. It's cramped, and she probably should have told him she could handle breakfast, but it's too much like that first morning together for her to give it up, a hundred memories of breakfasts made together slamming into her.

Henry watches them with a vague suspicion, and it's only when he mutters something about them being weird that she realizes she's been wearing a dopey grin to match Killian's since she woke up.

She's so absorbed in the morning she loses track of time, but her glance falls on the clock after polishing off a plate of pancakes and Henry is going to be late for school if they don't leave right away.

"Oh, c'mon, can't I hang out with you guys today?" he whines in response to her harried demand he go grab his bag.

"Later. School now."

"Will you be here later?" Henry asks Killian, and Emma smiles to herself, knowing his answer. The man's idea of running home for _a few things_ is a bag with enough clothes to last a week.

"Aye, lad, I shall be here unless your mother sees fit to throw me out." It's teasingly said, but there's a catch in the words that Henry doesn't notice.

Emma does.

"Okay." Henry's expression perks up, and Emma only has to tell him once more to go get his things, swallowing the unease Killian's behavior brings on.

"I'll be right back," she says softly, unable to stop herself from leaning down to kiss Killian, a kiss sticky from syrup and chocolate. "We can talk when I get back, figure out how we're going to do this. I have to work at eleven. Late shift today."

"Aye." He looks like he wants to say more, but Henry reappears and now they're _definitely_ late.

Her son chatters excitedly during the short ride to school, firing questions at Emma about Killian's house and his movies. How long is he staying? Are they going to go to LA? Does he have a pool?

All the things of importance to a twelve-year-old boy.

Emma answers the best she can, biting back the rising uncertainty. She's been floating on a cloud of bliss all morning, finally allowing herself to be happy Killian is back in her life. He had all the answers yesterday – just buy a house out here, problem solved.

But there are still so many questions. How often will she see him? Does he expect her to pull Henry out of school when he's filming on location for long stretches? Does he expect her to just quit her job _again_? Is he going to drive back and forth from LA constantly? As much as she wants to see him each night, she knows how exhausting his schedule can be. Four hours in the car won't help, and she won't allow him to run himself into the ground like that.

He's still angry. And hurt. Neither of them have said it, but it lurks in every touch, every word between them. And it's not that her emotions don't still twist in her belly like writhing snakes, memories of tearful nights and an empty ache too strong to forget, but the more time they spend together again, the more foolish she feels – it seems he is far more entitled to his anger than she is.

Her nerves rise in her throat as she walks back into the cabin, the questions circling through her head. He looks up at the screech of the screen door, phone in hand as he sits on her couch. The kitchen is clean, all trace of their morning mess wiped away, but he's made more coffee and gets up to pour her a cup when she walks in.

"Henry is pretty excited about movie sets," she says as he hands her a steaming mug, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Henry is a safe topic.

"Aye. And his mother?"

"I meant what I said. I can't lose you again. I won't." She offers a weak smile, hiding behind her coffee once more. "But I need to do what's right for Henry, too. He's happy here."

"I was entirely serious about purchasing a home."

"You can't just buy...but even if you did. How does it work? I can't...my old job was dangerous. I get why I couldn't keep doing it when this started. And with Henry...but I can't just be your girlfriend, Killian. I need to work."

"If you're worried about money…"

"We've never talked about money, and it might be none of my business," she cuts in, struggling to keep her temper under control. She doesn't want to fight with him, not now, not when things finally feel the slightest bit normal again. "But I'm guessing if you cashed out and walked away, sold your house in LA, you would never have to work again. Would you do it?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but then stops, frowning. He stares at her for a long moment, before finally sighing. "Aye, you've made your point, but we can figure all of it out, love. We decide we're going to be together, and we figure out the rest as we go."

"That doesn't work when you have a kid. Henry's been bounced around so many times...he needs stability."

"As do you." He's said it so quietly she's not sure she's meant to hear, but when she looks up, he's watching her. "Tell me what you need to make this work. You must realize by now I will do whatever is in my power to make you happy."

His kiss is slow and deliberate as he moves his lips against hers. She's dimly aware of him reaching for her coffee cup, setting it on the counter and pulling her closer, wrapping her up completely in his arms.

" _You_ make me happy," she says as they break apart, her arms still looped around his neck. "You know that, right? You know if it all went to shit and we were broke and had nothing, _you_ would still make me happy."

"Emma–"

"Like you said, we'll figure it out together," she barrels on, determined to get it all out before she loses her nerve. "It's not just on you to make me happy. I get...I'm...I'm going to try to be better about talking and not...just...I need you to understand where I'm coming from."

"I'm trying, love. But we will have disagreements in the future. I won't deny I have a temper, but the last thing I wish to do is hurt you. I need to know if I take a walk to calm down, you won't have packed up and left."

He stops there, but Emma hears the unspoken _again_ in his carefully controlled words. "I won't," she whispers, guilt heavy as lead in her stomach.

He nods, his expression turning thoughtful. "I never asked. Is the lad's father…?"

"I haven't heard a word from Neal. I don't expect to. I'm pretty sure he took off for Canada after...he never even knew I was pregnant."

"And Henry? Do you think...will he truly be all right with us?"

She doesn't answer right away, the insecurity of the question breaking her heart all over again. The kiss she gives him is meant to drive away the doubt, but it's still lingering in his eyes when she pulls back. "Killian, we're both lucky to have you. You heard Henry this morning. Right now all he cares about is that you're cool. Give him some time to get to know you. He'll love you as much as I do." She sighs, pressing her cheek to his chest and folding her arms around him. "I have to go talk to Granny, let her know what's going on. It shouldn't take long. You'll be here?" She doesn't know why she's even asking when he's made it plain he has no intention of going anywhere, but the question comes out before she can stop it.

"I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else."

Emma is nervous walking up to Granny's porch, uncertain of what she's even going to say. She doesn't want to quit – she just got done telling Killian she won't – but her hours will need to change if this is going to work.

She also has to admit she wasn't exactly sick yesterday.

She expects frustration, but the older woman only smiles fondly by the time Emma is done with her jumbled explanation, patting her hand reassuringly. "Don't apologize to me for it. Ruby is the one who had to pick up the slack. Work it out with her. I'm happy to have you as long as you'd like. Though I take it you'll be vacating the cabin?"

"I think so. Killian wants to buy a house out here, so Henry can stay in his school. And so I can keep working. I don't want to quit. I like it here." Her cheeks flush as the full force of the words sink in – she started this entire adventure in search of a home, but she never expected to have love, too. Not the love of her son, not Killian's love – but she has both.

They come to an agreement Emma is happy with. She'll maintain her schedule Monday through Thursday, with Fridays added in if Killian is traveling. Any longer absences they agree to discuss as they come up, and Emma walks back to the cabin smiling.

Killian's presence doesn't change that she has to work that day, or fetch Henry from school, though her thoughts drift often. She finds herself blushing in the middle of the stable when she presses against a door to get out of the way of a rider, the mere memory of Killian pushing her up against her own door setting every nerve on fire. But it's not just the fire – it's the softness of his smile right when he opened his eyes this morning, how _good_ he is with Henry.

For the first time, she lets herself want things that never seemed possible.

The day drags and flies by all at once, but it's late by the time they get Henry to bed. Emma is grateful to sink down onto the couch and into Killian's arms after showering off the sweat of the day. He presses a kiss to her hair, a familiar gesture that melts the tension out of her shoulders as she leans her head back. "Hi," she says quietly, catching his thoughtful expression. "Everything okay?"

He drags his finger down her arm, brows furrowed, and he lets out a sigh before he speaks. "I noticed as I was putting away the dishes this morning you have no cupcake tins." The words are slow and measured, carefully spoken as though she's a wild animal about to spook.

Emma struggles not to, but every muscle in her body tenses as the memory of Elsa's kitchen slams into her. She didn't try again, not after that one horrific night. There was no point.

"I didn't buy any when Henry and I moved in here," she finally says, her eyes on her lap. "I haven't... I don't bake. I tried once, but I...not since…" She shrugs helplessly, hating the tightness in her throat, the way her tongue seems unable to form words.

"Emma…" Her name comes out strangled, his voice as broken as she feels with the memories washing over her. He nudges her gently until she looks at him, his eyes glassy. It hits her then, how deeply this man understands her, how well he knows her – how much he loves her.

He kisses her, a slow kiss filled with apologies and tenderness, his fingers in her hair and on her cheek. "I haven't eaten a single bloody cupcake since you left Scotland," he confesses, his lips still inches from hers as his eyes open, searching her gaze. "I missed so very many things, love, but those nights in the kitchen with you... I desperately want that back. Do you think…"

He hesitates, doesn't finish his sentence, and Emma leans back in, sharing another lingering kiss before she pulls away, her thumb resting on his lower lip. "We can go buy new tins tomorrow. And supplies."

"It's all still in the kitchen in LA." He takes a shaky breath, the ghost of a smile stretching his lips. "If you were serious about coming home – coming to LA this weekend – perhaps we could...in our kitchen…"

She smiles then, a real smile she sees reflected in his eyes as she nods. "Chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting?"

"Mmm." He tightens his grip on her, kissing her forehead before brushing his lips ever so gently over her cheeks and eyelids, along her jaw and down her neck. "As much as I love chocolate, perhaps we might go with red velvet?" he whispers, his breath warm on her skin.

"Sure." She must still look confused when he sits back up, the soft haze of happiness in his eyes, because he takes her hand, laces their fingers together and squeezes before he explains.

"The first time you made them is one of my fondest memories."

"That was such a hard day." It seems so long ago now, the overwhelming emotion she struggled to choke down with a punishing run, the churning misery of the visit to the hospital to see David's newborn – standing in the kitchen stirring the dark red batter unable to think about much beyond the comfort of Killian's arms around her.

Giving into the desperate need for that comfort and curling into his arms, the stack of pillows thrown to the floor for the first time.

"Aye, but at the end of it, you came to me and allowed me to take care of you. Back then…" He shrugs, glancing down at their twined fingers. "That was the night I knew you were it for me, love. There will never be another woman who owns my heart and soul as you do." His voice has gone low again, gravelly, and he kisses her cheek with such tenderness her throat tightens all over again. "So, aye, red velvet is my request, if I may make one."

"Red velvet it is," she whispers, tilting her head back and brushing his hair away from his eyes. "I love you."

"And I you."

She expects it to be harder to get back to normal, to find a way to fit back together again after being so thoroughly shattered apart. Instead, it's like slipping on a favorite sweater on a cool fall day after a scorching summer. Being with Killian has never been difficult – once she stopped fighting it.

She even sleeps through the night those first weeks back together, Killian's arms tight around her.

But when the life-long insomnia returns, when she wakes in the middle of the night to the silent sprawling house in the hills and Killian's warm skin tight against hers, she can't quite make herself get out of bed. Instead, she traces the contours of his face, runs her fingers through the stubble on his jaw and silently thanks the universe for him.

His eyes flutter open, and before she can apologize for waking him, his lips curl into a sleepy smile. "Couldn't sleep, Swan?" His voice is rough, accent thicker like it usually is right when he's woken, and it sends a shiver down her spine.

"I'll fall back asleep soon. I'm sorry I woke you."

"Mmm," he mumbles into her hair, his hold on her tightening for a moment as he pulls her close. Then he sighs, rolling out of bed and fishing his pajama pants off the floor in a movement that leaves the bed cool.

"What are you doing?" she asks curiously as he bends down to the floor once more before circling the bed.

"Can't make cupcakes in bed, darling." His voice is still low and thick with sleep, but his eyes sparkle even in the dim light as he holds out his T-shirt.

She smiles up at him, yanking the shirt over her head and stretching to kiss him. "Let me grab a pair of shorts. If Henry wakes up…"

"Aye." His palm runs almost regretfully up her bare thigh, sliding under the shirt to tug her closer for another kiss before he releases her, scrubbing his hand over his face. "What sort shall we make tonight?"

"We made chocolate the other day," she calls from the closet, opening a drawer and quickly tugging the shorts on with a grin to herself. By _we_ , she means she tried – in vain – to supervise Killian and Henry baking _on their own_ , by her son's demand.

The endeavor concluded with no cupcakes from either of them, her boys covered in chocolate and looking especially pleased with themselves.

Emma scolded them both, barely able to contain her laughter as she sent them off to clean themselves up while she made a batch of edible cupcakes. Henry's hug was sticky and Killian's kiss sweet, but she swore she heard them high-fiving each other on the way out of the kitchen, Killian's deep laughter mixing with Henry's.

Killian is obviously remembering the same moment when she walks back into the bedroom. He's turned on one of the lamps, the room awash in a soft glow as he grins at her. "Chocolate could be fun." He raises an eyebrow in challenge, feigning pain as Emma pokes his chest.

" _You_ are a bad influence."

"Henry seems to quite like my influence."

Emma opens her mouth to tease him some more, but there's something about the way he's said it, something about watching her son bond with Killian that makes her want to hold the man tight instead. She loops her arms around his neck, pulling herself close and pressing her cheek to his bare chest.

"Everything all right, love?" he asks when she lingers in his arms, one hand stroking through her snarled hair. "I only meant–"

"I love you," she cuts in, pressing a kiss against his shoulder and releasing him. "Let's go make those cupcakes. I think you need another frosting lesson."

It's a peaceful night, memories wrapped around them as much as they're wrapped up in each other, the kitchen an island in the still house.

It feels like coming home.

But the weeks go by and Killian's work begins to demand more and more of his time. The early buzz over his performance with David opens doors once slammed in his face, and Emma is happy his career is in a better place, but she misses him out on the ranch when he has to stay in Los Angeles.

She wouldn't trade Henry for anything, but she wishes for the nights in Los Angeles, knowing that no matter how late his evening kept him out, Killian always came home to her.

She tells him so as he slips into bed in the early hours of the morning, fresh from an evening meeting with a producer that went well into the night. She's told him not to do this, not to make the long drive when he can barely keep his eyes open, but her protests always die the moment his skin touches hers.

In the morning she barely remembers the words muttered half-asleep into his chest as she stumbles around the kitchen, but it's plain Killian's thoughts have lingered on _home_.

"The realtor has some houses for us to look at," he says as they all settle around the rickety table in Emma's cabin, Henry's sleepy expression perking up at the statement.

"Houses? We're moving?"

"Maybe," Emma jumps in, shooting Killian a look in the hopes he'll shut up. "Killian thinks we might be more comfortable with more space around here."

"Not far, lad. Close enough so you wouldn't have to change schools." Killian's eyes meet Emma's, filled with questions, before they dart back to Henry. "What do you think?"

"Can we have a pool like at the other house?"

"What would a house be without a pool?"

"Cool." Henry chatters on excitedly while Emma drinks her coffee, struggling to keep her expression calm as Killian answers his questions. The two of them have all but built a mansion with spaceships and rockets by the time they're done eating.

She should know better than to think Killian hasn't noticed her sour mood. As soon as Henry leaves the room to go take a shower, he turns to her with a furrowed brow. "What's troubling you, love?"

"I just…" She shrugs, gesturing around the cabin that has been home for months. "Is this really so bad?" she asks, rising to gather dishes and bring them to the sink.

"You must know my desire for our own home is not an insult to what you have here with Henry. We've talked about this, Emma. A bit more privacy and space would be good for all of us."

"You want to spend a fortune on a palace."

"Is it so wrong I want to give my family the best?" he asks quietly, getting out of his chair to stand beside her at the kitchen sink.

"Your family?" Emma repeats back to him, emotion nearly overwhelming her as her throat tightens. He's said it so casually – _my family_ – and she supposes that's what they are, but he's never _said_ it.

"Aye." He reaches across her, turning off the tap and drawing her into his arms. He doesn't say anything, almost as if he knows that another word now would be overwhelming. Emma burrows deeper into his arms, breathing in the familiar scent of him, clutching his T-shirt with soapy hands and letting his fingers in her hair calm her racing heart.

 _Family_. There are many things Emma never pictured for herself, Killian's love among them, but it almost seems greedy to have him and Henry and happiness. All she's been able to think about when he's brought up buying a house is the money and her inability to contribute in any meaningful way, but how can she argue with him when he puts it so simply?

"I still don't want a palace," she mumbles into his chest when her throat eases enough to speak.

"But if we had a castle, there could be a moat and a drawbridge. I could teach Henry to swordfight in the towers and…" He grins when she finally looks up, eyes dancing with mischief.

"It's not nice to tease me." She frowns, leaning back to glare. "And you and David better not be teaching him swordfighting. The stuff you've been letting him do on the horses is bad enough."

"I may have already promised."

"Killian!"

"We'll be careful, love. They're not sharp." His grin softens as he pushes her hair off her shoulders and leans down to kiss her forehead. "And Granny only allows him to ride the tamest of the beasts. I would never do anything to endanger the lad."

"I know," she admits begrudgingly, turning back to the dishes. "What time are we meeting the realtor?" she asks with a sigh, but it's teasing and she nudges him with her hip to make sure he knows.

He smiles, picking up a towel to dry the dishes as she washes them. "He'll be here at two."

* * *

I am SO very sorry about how long this took. Between vacations and life, time 100% got away from me. Many thanks to oncesnow for filling in on beta duties while onceuponsomechaos is off on a work adventure.

Hope this one was worth the wait! I promise it will not be another 3 weeks before the next chapter.


	23. Chapter 23

It takes longer than either of them would like to find a house – months of tense moments, lonely nights and frustrating searches. Killian's travel schedule only becomes more hectic as offers begin to roll in, a promotional scene from his movie with David generating interest that puts an actual smile on Regina's face.

He's in London for three days, and between his schedule and the eight hour time difference, Emma isn't overly surprised when her phone lights up at two in the morning. She's up anyway – Henry begged her to spend the weekend in Los Angeles to take advantage of the pool, and it's hard to sleep in the big house without Killian.

 _Awake, love?_

She brushes her hands off on her shorts, smiling to herself as she reaches for the phone.

 _Making chocolate cupcakes._

She's not sure he even waited for the message to send before calling, his tired expression filling her screen almost instantly. "Baking without me, darling?" he says in greeting, squinting at her. "And in my shirt, I see."

Emma grins, glancing down at the faded words across her chest. "I like this shirt. It's the first one of your shirts I ever wore."

"Aye, and it still looks better on you." He sighs, his eyes closing for a split second, and Emma sees the exhaustion etched into his features.

"You okay?" she asks quietly, leaning back against the counter with her phone in hand.

"A bit tired is all. Little time for sleep what with the flights and the meetings, but it's good to be busy again." He glances away from the phone, momentarily distracted by someone's question that he only nods to in reply. "I miss you, Swan. I cannot wait to return home. I'm not pleased we left things as we did."

It's Emma's turn to close her eyes, struggling to conceal her frustration. She's been trying to forget their argument and just look forward to making up when he comes home, but it seems he wants to talk about it. "Killian…"

"You find fault with every home we look at. You can't deny that. It was a reasonable question…"

"It was _not_ a reasonable question! How can you think I've changed my mind?" The last words nearly break in her throat, sharp and jagged against her tongue.

He scrubs his palm over his face, and Emma kicks herself for cutting him off. She hates arguing, and she hates it even more when he's thousands of miles away. "Then what is it, love? You've had objections based off countertops and room sizes, things you've never cared about before."

"You were the one who said that last one had a closet like a coffin," she reminds him, but the words lack heat. He's right. She's been grasping at reasons, but it's not what he thinks, not at all. "They just haven't felt right. I know you want to settle this before the summer with the schedule Regina has been talking about, but this is going to be our home, Killian. I want it to feel like home as much as this place does," she says, gesturing around the kitchen.

"I wish you had told me that before I got on the plane over here." His eyes soften, his lips pulling into a smile as he sighs. "I wish I was in that kitchen with you."

"Me too." A shadow passes behind him, followed by a murmur of voices, and she fights to keep her dismay hidden. She hates these five minute conversations when he's traveling, always rushed and interrupted.

"I have to go," he says regretfully when he turns back to her. He doesn't bother to try to conceal his disappointment, his brows knit together. "I'll be home Wednesday. Only a few more days." His eyes are sad even as he tells her he loves her.

No sooner than she gets the words out in return, he's gone and Emma is back to the empty kitchen. She sighs, the impulse to get on a plane to London strong enough to make her pull up the airline app, but she puts the phone down before she gets any further. She can't drag Henry halfway across the world, missing school, to see Killian when he'll be home in three days.

Inspiration strikes as she's frosting the cupcakes. The shipping cost is obscene, but the look on Killian's face when he calls makes it worth every penny. "You sent me cupcakes," he says as she smiles sleepily at him, his call having woken her.

"That explains the chocolate frosting on your cheek," she teases. "I was afraid they wouldn't get there in time."

"They were delivered a few minutes ago. I apologize for waking you."

"S'okay. What time is it?"

"Noon here. Regina and I have an early dinner reservation before we head to the airport. Our flight leaves at seven-thirty. It will be late by the time I arrive, but tonight I go to sleep with you in my arms."

"Mmm, that sounds nice. Promise me you'll be careful driving."

"Always. Go back to sleep. Thank you for sending me a piece of home, love."

"I would have done it sooner if I had known how happy it would make you. Oh, and we have an appointment with the realtor Thursday. Tomorrow. Whichever. There's a house I want us to look at."

His smile is dazzling in its happiness, eyes widening. "That sounds delightful."

They move in six weeks later.

Killian manages to rearrange his schedule so the first two weeks the house is theirs he's with them, hanging curtains and picking out lamps. Emma isn't sure which of them is more excited the day the boxes arrive from Williams-Sonoma with new baking equipment.

The first week is exhausting, unpacking boxes, rearranging furniture, but it's worth every sweaty, dusty minute. She catches Killian grinning at her for no apparent reason, and Henry's excitement over his new bedroom – Emma begrudgingly agreed to the flat screen TV and video games at Killian's insistence – is contagious.

"Don't get any ideas about an Xbox in our room," she tells Killian as the two boys take a break from collapsing boxes to sit on the edge of Henry's bed and shoot aliens. He only chuckles, nudging Henry with his shoulder and muttering something too quiet for her to hear.

But it makes her son laugh, and that's enough for her.

It's good to have him home, to sit out under the stars and listen to him explain constellations to Henry – to fall asleep each night with Killian's heartbeat in her ear. Selfishly, she never wants it to end, but eventually the demands of his career reassert themselves.

She can't quite put her finger on it, but it's easier in some ways being apart with their house around her rather than the ranch cabin. There are pieces of Killian everywhere here, and though it makes her ache for him, it's soothing to be able to walk into the closet and see his things beside hers.

June has just started when Emma finds herself drinking her coffee snug against Killian on the porch swing, waving to Henry as he runs down the driveway to catch the bus to school.

Another benefit of the move – not having to drive Henry to school. She's not sure who was more excited – Emma can savor her coffee now before heading to the ranch instead of gulping it down and Henry gets more time with his friends.

"How long do we have you for this time?" Emma asks, leaning her head against Killian's shoulder and watching the dust kick up behind the departing bus. He once again arrived home in the early hours of this morning, sliding beneath the sheets to press every inch of his warm skin against hers while she was still half-asleep.

"Three days. I have to be in New York on Monday." His palm settles on her hip, fingers inching beneath the waist of her pants. "But I was thinking about my commitments this summer. I'll be gone nearly six weeks. It's a bloody long time." His hand travels lower, and she should stop him, but the nearest neighbor is a half-mile away – it was a big factor in the decision to buy this particular house.

Her breath catches, a soft gasp that turns into a huff of protest as he stops short of where she wants him, his fingers trailing back up her stomach. "Killian…"

"Join me. Henry finishes school for the year in a few weeks. I've been over the schedule with Regina in an attempt to make more time to come home, but that new film I told you about last week is ramping up even though filming won't start until next year, and…"

Emma presses her lips to his to stop his rambling, a soft kiss he sighs into, his fingers in her hair when she leans back. "We talked about it. You want to do this movie. You _should_ do this movie. It's your first lead. It's a big deal." She brushes her thumb along his jaw, fingers curled around his cheek as she holds his gaze. "I know the last few months have been hard with the move and everything with your career, but I'm so proud of you. I'm proud the man I love fights for what he wants and isn't afraid of hard work."

She kisses him before he can reply, a fierce kiss to punctuate the words. He nuzzles into her hair as they break apart, his fingers finding the curve of her waist beneath her shirt. "I love you, Swan, more than I can ever put into words," he murmurs into her ear, dropping a kiss to her shoulder before pulling back. "And I love that you support my career, but I don't want to be so far away from you and Henry for long. If you join me for the summer, we can show the lad a bit of the world. I'm sure Granny would be willing to spare you."

Emma smiles up at him, knowing some of the cities in the summer's itinerary. "Will you kiss me at the top of the Eiffel Tower like we're silly tourists and embarrass Henry? He's almost thirteen now. I have to be an embarrassing mom at some point."

"I will kiss you everywhere we go, until the lad says we have to stop. And then perhaps a few more times."

"Okay."

"Okay? You don't intend to make me suffer first?"

Emma rolls her eyes, but she's grinning. "Yeah. I'm in, as long as Granny doesn't need me. We'll tell Henry when he gets home from school...which is many hours from now."

"So it is, Swan. What shall we do with ourselves all day?"

"You barely got any sleep last night. I think you should go back to bed." She stares at him as she says it, her intentions clear. "I'll join you, to make sure you stay there." Granny isn't expecting her today, and there's nowhere she would rather be than in Killian's arms.

Her eyes light up with mischief as she gets to her feet, careful not to spill the remnants of her coffee before taking his hand and pulling him after her into the house – _their_ house.

They spend the morning in bed, skin to skin, speaking quietly between moments of passion. Plans are made for the evening, for the morning, for the trip, for the _future_ , and Emma can't help but think back to the day they met – Regina's cool offer and her reluctant acceptance.

"Did you ever think this is where we'd end up?" she asks, pressing her lips to his shoulder, her fingers trailing over his chest.

"I hoped and I dreamed, love, nearly from the moment I met you. I knew you were everything I needed the first time I looked into your eyes and saw your soul."

"So poetic," she teases lightly, twisting in his arms to kiss him properly. "You make it sound like we were destined to be together."

He shrugs as she pulls back slightly, her body half on his, their legs tangled together. He sweeps his hand down her back, his palm settling flat to keep her secure against him. "Perhaps we are."

"You believe that?"

"I believe that there is no one on this planet more perfect for me than you, Emma. Call it fate or destiny, or whatever you wish. But having you in it has made my life whole, and I have to believe the universe wouldn't have been so cruel as to keep us apart forever." He smiles softly in response to her expression – he always says the perfect things, and she's awful with words.

He threads his free hand into her hair and tugs her closer. "It's all right, love. Just tell me you love me and make love to me before Henry catches us in bed in the middle of the day. I don't believe we need to embarrass him quite so thoroughly as that."

Emma laughs quietly, shifting her weight over his. "I love you," she murmurs right before their lips meet, her laughter already dying as his touch grows purposeful.

Henry eyes them suspiciously when he gets home, and Emma self-consciously attempts to smooth her hair out as Killian explains the idea for them to accompany him for the summer.

"What do you say, kid?" Emma asks, leaning into Killian's side and watching her son.

"I want my own room. I'm almost thirteen, Mom. You guys aren't fooling anyone. And your shirt is on backwards." He rolls his eyes as he walks away, and Emma feels the redness creeping into her cheeks as she stares after her son.

But what's more surprising is the flush in Killian's cheeks when she turns her eyes on him, and she can't help but laugh. "All our talk of embarrassing him…"

"Aye, not much gets past the lad," he says wryly, kissing her hair and tugging at her shirt. "The backwards shirt did give us away."

"You didn't tell me."

"I had other things on my mind."

"Hmmm….like what?"

He kisses her until she no longer has the ability to ask questions – not that she has to, anymore. She has all the answers she needs.

* * *

Emma falls asleep on his shoulder before the plane even reaches the end of the runway at LAX, and it's not long before Henry does the same. Killian smiles to himself, leaning back in his seat and luxuriating in the comfort of _family_.

Bless Granny for giving Emma the summer off. Bless Ruby for having a friend from college in need of a summer job.

Emma wakes up somewhere over the Atlantic, blinking at him with sleep-filled eyes and a crease in her cheek from his sweater. She smiles when she sees Henry passed out on his other side, face still slack with sleep.

"How long has he been out?" she asks softly, rubbing at her eyes. She finds Killian's hand, lacing their fingers together and kissing the back of his hand lightly. He'll never tire of her like this, soft and affectionate, snuggled into his side.

"I think he made it perhaps ten minutes longer than his mother. Must be genetic, this drooling on my shoulder business."

She scowls at him, but he can see the twitch of her lips that means she's fighting a smile. "Not that again. I do not drool. Neither does Henry."

"Of course, love. My mistake." He kisses her hair, laughing to himself as she pulls his arm around her with a huff.

Killian loves all of Emma's expressions, but the awe and delight on her face – and Henry's – upon arriving in their room in Paris lands near the top. He snaps a picture of the two of them on the small balcony of the suite, Emma pointing toward the Eiffel Tower and Henry's face lit up.

He doesn't post it on Instagram.

He leaves Emma asleep in their bed with a kiss on her forehead, hurrying off to meet Regina in the lobby for the early morning interview she's scheduled. He usually hates these things, but today, working early means the rest of the day with Emma and Henry, so it's worth every hour of missed sleep.

Regina smiles a rare smile in the car on the way back to the hotel once it's over, her eyes sweeping across his face. "She's good for you. I'm glad it all worked out."

"Aye." He glances out the window as they pass over the river, familiar sights flying by. Excitement bubbles up as he watches the city, plans to show it all to Emma and Henry making it new again.

He's positive a trip to the Pont des Arts will make Emma roll her eyes, but he's got the lock ready to go anyway.

"Hat and sunglasses for all three of you if you want the day to yourselves." Regina's voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and he smiles his thanks.

"I planned on it." He glances up as they arrive back in front of the hotel, a dozen or so fans waiting. "Though perhaps I should say hello to this lot? They were here when we left."

"They've been here since last night," Regina replies, eyeing the fans. "Do me a favor and post a few photos today, all right? It doesn't have to be Emma or Henry," she quickly adds, gesturing toward the fans. Regina has grown oddly protective over Emma's son in the media. Killian appreciates it too much to ask questions. "Just something to keep them all swooning over you."

Killian grins, lifting an eyebrow before putting on the swagger and charm show for the waiting crowd. He catches Regina's eye roll and has to fight back a laugh.

It's nice to be happy.

"You guys are gross," Henry complains that afternoon as they stand in line to go up the final elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Killian is about to reply when Emma beats him to it.

"Jealous?" she asks with with an overly innocent look about her. Henry tries to get away, but Emma is too fast, smothering him with kisses that make him turn bright red and scowl at her with a petulant "Moooooom! Stop!"

Killian's heart swells as he watches, Emma's joy and lightness a rare and welcome sight. She's _giggling_ when she finally abandons her attack on her son, happily reclaiming her spot snug against Killian's side with a kiss on his cheek while Henry adjusts his hat and wipes his face.

Emma kisses Killian with Paris sprawled out beneath them, and Henry is the one to snap a picture, grinning at the two of them as they explore the views. And when an older couple offers to take a picture of the three of them like any other tourist, Killian happily curls his arms around his family and grins for the camera.

Later that night, with Henry's assistance by feigning disinterest in an evening stroll, Killian pulls a shiny red padlock out of his pocket as the Pont des Arts comes into view. His fingers are still clasped around it when Emma asks in surprise, "Are those all locks?"

"Aye." By the time she turns back to him, the lock is sitting on his palm. "It wouldn't be a trip to Paris without it, love."

"You put a lock on a bridge when you come to Paris?"

"It's a love lock, Swan. You fasten it to the bridge and toss the key into the river. It's a symbol."

"You told Henry we were coming here, didn't you?"

"The lad is an excellent accomplice."

Emma shakes her head and rolls her eyes just as he knew she would, but she's smiling, and once he's fastened the lock amongst all the others, she drops the key into the river. She snaps a picture of them kissing in the lamplight, and Killian has never been this happy in his life.

They meet David and Mary Margaret in London, Leo in tow. Henry is all too happy to accept their invitation for an evening movie marathon, leaving Killian and Emma free to wander the city arm in arm. "Thank you," she says softly as they lean against Westminster Bridge, Parliament and Big Ben lit up against the night sky.

"For what, love?" He toys with a strand of her hair, loose around her shoulders with the cover of the night to keep them from being easily recognized. They learned the hard way back in Los Angeles that some of his more _committed_ fans have found following Emma to be a means of finding him.

She finds his hand on her shoulder, lacing their fingers together and snuggling closer into his side. "For still loving me after everything I put you through. For this trip. For being so good with Henry. For our beautiful homes." She twists to kiss him softly, a smile still on her lips as she pulls away.

"I love you." His voice is gruff, the words thick as he buries his face in her hair and breathes her in. He should be the one thanking her, for letting him into their lives, for putting up with his travel schedule, for loving him – but he won't argue with her tonight. Aye, having her and Henry at his side has been all that is wonderful, but these moments, where something about a foreign city seems to soften her, make her more open with her emotions, that's been the real treasure of the trip.

And when he comes back from a photoshoot with David, the sight of Emma with Leo in her arms while happily chatting with Mary Margaret takes his breath away.

* * *

It's not a life she ever would have dared to dream of, but this life with Killian she's carved out for herself, for her son, she's grown fiercely protective over it. They have the time of their lives traipsing across Europe the first half of Henry's summer break, but by the time August rolls around, Killian's calendar stretches before them for weeks without anywhere to be beyond Los Angeles.

She wouldn't trade the memories – the photo of the three of them at the top of the Eiffel Tower goes into a frame as soon as they get home – but it's good to be home, to sleep in their bed.

To wake up in the middle of the night and bake cupcakes with Killian stealing chocolate chips every chance he gets.

Killian teaches Henry the fine art of watching soccer that summer – _it's called football, Swan_ – and they spend long, lazy afternoons in the backyard. It's moments like this, moments where they feel like a _family_ that make Emma grateful beyond measure he found a way back to her. She savors the afternoons spent on the patio, David and Mary Margaret and Leo joining them and lingering into the night.

Still, it's hard to be away from Killian again come fall when his obligations and Henry's school schedule don't mesh. But it all leads up the premiere of the movie that started everything, and now that it's nearly here, Emma is all the more anxious to be at Killian's side.

She hasn't seen the movie yet. Killian has only seen bits and pieces, and he seems happy with it, but she knows he's nervous about how it will turn out on the big screen. What she doesn't like is the thought of him alone with the pressure of the movie, the expectations he's placed on himself.

Her and Henry are supposed to meet him in the city tomorrow night, but the thought of Killian pacing the empty house alone makes her crazy. It's already late, and Henry has school, but this is important too – this is family.

"Hey, kid." She props her hip against the frame of his bedroom door, watching him play a videogame with a look of intense concentration that somehow reminds her of Killian. "Do you have a test or anything important at school tomorrow?"

"I already did my homework, Mom." It's the petulant response of a boy on the cusp of being a teenager, and she knows there's more of this to come, but tonight it makes her smile. She missed so much of Henry's childhood, but this, she's going to experience every moment of it.

"So no tests tomorrow?" she presses, half-watching him annihilate the enemy on the screen.

"No. Why are you being weird?"

"I was thinking we could go to LA tonight instead of tomorrow. Surprise Killian."

That gets his attention, the game instantly paused. "No school tomorrow?"

She laughs, walking into his room and ruffling his hair. "No school tomorrow. But we have to go soon if we're going tonight," she says, opening his closet door to find the small bag he usually takes to LA when they go for the weekend.

"Okay!"

It's a relief when she finally pulls into the driveway of the house in the hills, the lights shining in welcome from the front door. Henry is asleep in the passenger seat, the late hour having claimed him barely thirty minutes into the drive. Emma hates to wake him, but there's no way she's getting him in the house on her own.

"Henry," she calls softly, gently shaking his shoulder. "Hey, we're here."

He glances up at the house, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning. "Okay," he mumbles, dragging himself out of the car. She can't help smiling at the sight, how he almost sways on his feet he's so tired as he waits for her at the door while she grabs their bags from the backseat. It's not much – Emma made sure duplicates of all the important things existed in both houses to save them all the trouble of hauling too many things back and forth.

"Go get in bed. I'll send Killian in to say hi if he's still awake," she says softly as she turns the key in the lock, easing the front door open.

"S'okay. Tired," Henry mumbles with a yawn, shuffling down the hallway to his room with a half-hearted wave.

Emma follows, peeking into the bedroom in search of Killian, but a quick glance reveals the bedspread undisturbed, his bags sitting just inside the door with the tags from JFK still on them. At least this trip was to do the morning talk shows in New York ahead of the premiere so the time difference wasn't quite so bad, but Emma knows the schedule they keep on press days. He has to be exhausted, but he isn't in the shower either, so she heads for the only other place she expects to find him at this hour.

The house is dark as she moves through the familiar rooms, making her way out to the patio. Sure enough, she spots him through the glass, his feet propped on the edge of the fire pit and a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He's staring into the flames, the orange glow highlighting the line of his jaw, the shadow of muscle in his arms, and for a moment, she stands in the shadows and drinks him in.

"Hey." She keeps her voice low and soft, not wanting to startle him so close to the fire.

"Emma?" He sets his drink down and reaches for her, sending her tumbling into his arms on the lounge chair. His eyes light up with surprise and happiness as he presses a quick kiss to her cheek, burying his face in her hair. "I thought I heard a car, but figured it must be my imagination. Is everything all right, love?"

"Everything is good." She loops her arms around his neck, nudging him until she can bring her lips to his, savoring the warmth of his body and the softness of his lips. He tastes like rum, the slightly spicy flavor of it on her tongue as she pulls back to stroke her fingers down his cheek, the stubble on his jaw thicker than usual. "Henry fell asleep in the car so I sent him to bed."

"It's late. I didn't expect you until tomorrow." His hand travels up from her waist, over her ribs, palming her breast gently as their lips meet again, soft, tender kisses that simmer with heat.

"I didn't want you here by yourself, worrying about Saturday." She nods toward the glass of rum sitting on the concrete beside them, her brows knitting together as she settles more comfortably in his arms, the fire warm on her back. "You've worked so hard on this movie. It's going to be great."

"You truly believe that, don't you?"

"Of course I do." She smiles, kissing his shoulder and snuggling in closer. "I missed this."

He kisses her hair, tightening his grip. "I missed _you_ ," he murmurs in her ear, his breath washing over her as he sighs, relaxing into the lounge cushion. It's late, and they should go to bed, but Emma doesn't want to move, perfectly content where they are.

She's nodding off when she feels him shift, scooping her into his arms, a sudden coolness at her back as the fire goes out. "I can walk," she mumbles into his shoulder, a half-hearted protest at best.

"I know." He doesn't put her down, though, not until they've reached their bedroom, where he settles her on the mattress before turning to close the door. There's fire in his eyes as he turns back to her, a shiver running down her spine as he returns to the bed, crawling over her to settle between her legs. "Still tired?"

She smiles slowly, giving an exaggerated yawn even as she presses her hips up into his. He takes the invitation, and Emma loses herself in the brush of his lips, the drag of his fingers over her skin. He's gentle tonight, something tender and reverent in the way he touches her. It's not the scalding heat she expects after his long trip, but a slow burn that has her gasping and clinging to him all the same.

"I love you." The words come easy as breathing now, a quiet whisper against his skin as they settle beneath the sheets. She tucks herself in close, the weight of Killian's arm around her as she listens to his heartbeat slowly return to normal. He murmurs the words back to her, heavy with sleep and contentment.

He's anxious all day on Friday, in spite of her attempts to distract him. Henry convinces him to play video games for awhile, and she bakes a variety of chocolate desserts to entice him with, but the worry lines still appear between his brows.

He barely touches the cupcakes.

Emma rises early, makes a big breakfast Killian only picks at. She sighs, kissing his cheek and offering assurances it will all turn out okay.

Mary Margaret still doesn't want to leave Leo with a sitter, so she offered to take Henry for the night – the movie isn't particularly appropriate for his age, Killian's work or not. Emma barely wants to leave the house to bring him, nervously glancing at her phone the entire drive in case Killian calls.

David is the one to answer the door, relaxed as usual as he greets Henry and Emma. She gives Henry her best mom face with a stern _behave_ that results in him rolling his eyes before disappearing into the house. "You okay?" David asks as she turns to go, her car keys clutched tightly in her palm.

"He's really nervous," she admits, turning back to face him.

"I know. But I saw the rough cut, and he did great, Emma. He should be proud of this one. It's his best work."

She sighs, squinting in the bright sun despite her dark sunglasses. "I think…it's not just the movie. He was…we were…in a dark place, when you were filming. I think it's bringing a lot of that back up."

"All you can do is be there now. He knows you love him. Go home, Emma. I'll see you tonight. Keep him away from the rum," David tacks on with a teasing smile, but she can see the worry in his eyes.

Thankfully, she only finds Killian sipping coffee on her return. He's sitting on the edge of the pool, his feet dangling into the cool water. She kicks off her sandals, settling beside him to lean her cheek on his shoulder, her arm around his waist.

She doesn't say anything – she doesn't have to. The tension eases out of his shoulders the longer they sit in silence, his arm snaking around her to hold her close in spite of the day's heat.

She's loathe to get up, to break the peace of their embrace, but the glam squad is due soon and she hasn't showered yet. She kisses his cheek as she gets up, water dripping from her legs, but she can't quite walk away yet. "Hey," she says softly, waiting for him to look up at her. "You've got this. The hard part is done. And I'll be next to you all night."

He smiles up at her, a poor imitation of the real thing, but he squeezes her fingers before his gaze turns to the horizon again. "Go shower before Regina gets here and starts ordering people about."

She almost asks him to join her, but she's not sure that would really help, either. Instead, she worries, barely paying attention through the grueling process of getting ready for the premiere.

She's in green tonight, a bright, vibrant emerald that hugs her curves before flaring to a flowing skirt. She picked it as soon as she saw the color, almost an exact match to the dress she wore for their first appearance together what feels like a lifetime ago.

The gesture isn't lost on him, his eyes sweeping over her in a manner that makes her blood boil. He's as handsome as ever in a finely tailored navy suit, the crispness of his white shirt a contrast to the snug vest and slim black tie – but it's the look in his eyes that makes her want to drag him into one of the unoccupied rooms in the house and undo all the makeup she's spent hours having applied.

"Have I told you how much I adore that color on you, love?" he murmurs in her ear as they settle in the car, his fingers dancing over her thigh. It brings back the memory of the first limo ride, the tentative way he touched her skirt, but there's nothing tentative about him now as he leans closer, brushes a kiss against her neck, another on her bare shoulder.

Emma sighs, regretfully nudging him away. Her fingers find his, twining together and holding fast. "You know if you end up on the red carpet wearing my lipstick tonight of all nights Regina will skewer you," she scolds, but there's no real force behind the words.

He smirks, but he doesn't try to kiss her again, instead rubbing his thumb almost absently over the back of her hand as they make their way out of the hills and down to the theater. She tries to soothe him as his leg starts to bounce, gently stroking the back of his neck, but he's wound too tightly.

"Killian." He turns at the sound of his name, blue eyes swimming with anxiety, but he softens slightly as his gaze lands on hers. "It's going to be fine. I'm sure you're wonderful in the movie…"

"You can't know…"

"And even if by some inexplicable reason you're not, I will still love you. You will still have me, and you will still have Henry. If you never make another movie again, you will still have your family. So take a deep breath and try to relax. You know how cranky Regina gets when you look stiff in photos." She smiles, a teasing smile to accompany the squeeze of her fingers on his thigh.

It earns her a laugh, quiet as it may be, but his hand covers hers, lacing their fingers together once more as they pull up to the drop-off point.

Emma isn't sure she'll ever get used to the explosion of flashbulbs that hit them as they start down the carpet. She hangs back as he poses for photos with the cast. This isn't like the other events where he kept her at his side – he has obligations to this movie, to pose with not only David, but also with Ashley. Emma knows now those photos Gold published were taken out of context, but it's still an unexpected jab to her heart to see Killian wrap his arm around the woman's waist and smile for the cameras. She's been so wrapped up in her worry over Killian and his feelings she hasn't considered _this_ – the twisting in her belly, the tightening in her throat and the inexplicable irritation at every move Ashley Boyd makes at Killian's side.

And if the red carpet unsettles her, how the hell is she going to get through watching him on screen with the woman?

She begins to think maybe it would be better for her to just meet him inside, but he reaches for her, pulling her between him and David. The flashes blind her momentarily, but she does her best to smile even as insecurity gnaws at her.

But it fades the moment the spots clear from her vision and she looks up at Killian. He's staring at her with nothing but love and devotion in his eyes, as though none of the press or the others milling about on the red carpet exist. He holds her snugly against him, the entire line of his body molded to hers as he presses a kiss to her hair, his hand resting on her hip.

The flashbulbs explode again as he does it, but Emma doesn't have to think about her smile anymore. This is the man she fell in love with, steady and strong beside her. He told her once that he was hers as assuredly as she was his, and she didn't believe him then, didn't want to. But standing beside him tonight, she knows it in her bones – this man owns her soul.

He doesn't let her go again as they move down the rest of the press line. He's friendly and charming with the reporters, answering the same questions over and over as though it's the first time he's heard them.

But by the time they find their seats in the theater, he's nervous again, running his fingers through his hair, his leg bouncing even with her hand resting on his thigh. He calms some as the lights go down and the movie starts, but Emma has a hard time paying attention with the way he keeps nervously turning toward her, his eyes full of questions.

She pulls their joined hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his hand and squeezing, hoping he gets the silent message. There is nothing for him to worry about.

And there isn't – his performance is flawless, the tortured hero role executed without fail. Emma struggles not to read too much into the pain in his eyes in the scenes that call for it, the longing looks for the romantic interest that feel a little _too_ real.

He already told her he thought of her, envisioned her to get things right, but seeing it projected larger than life is a different matter altogether. The movement of his fingers in Ashley's hair is horribly familiar, the slide of his tongue over his bottom lip as they separate enough to make Emma's lips tingle. Her nails dig so hard into her palm as it goes on she's certain there will be indents for hours.

It doesn't take much longer to discover she just can't watch when he's on the screen with another woman, no matter how many times she tells herself it's fake. He warned her about the sex scene, and he shifts uncomfortably as it plays, his grip on her hand tighter than ever. She reminds herself of what he said, how awkward that day of filming was, reminds herself that it's a movie, it's not real, and there will be more like it.

But it doesn't make the lead in her stomach any lighter.

The after party is at a hotel across town, and Emma is grateful to know she has the car ride to compose herself as they leave the theater.

The last thing she expects is for Killian to pounce on her the moment the car door closes, the darkly tinted windows affording them privacy even as the thick crowd surrounds them. His kiss is reckless and unchecked in intensity, his hands roaming over her back and hips as he pulls her onto his lap.

He's breathing heavily when he leans back, his palm between her shoulder blades still holding her steady as his burning stare meets her curious eyes. "You do know you're the only one I want, don't you? It's you I think of every moment of the day. It's you, Emma." He kisses her again, gentler, his fingers threading into her hair.

"I'm sorry," she whispers as they separate, leaning her forehead against his. Her palms settle over his jaw, the familiar tickle of stubble under her skin. "God, I am so sorry."

"Whatever for, love? I wouldn't be able to watch if it were you and another actor."

"Not that…" She takes a deep breath, running her thumb along his cheekbone, brushing the hair out of his eyes. "I'm sorry for leaving you in Scotland, for leaving you to make this movie that was so important to you with things so awful between us."

"We're together now. That's all that matters." He runs his hands over her back, settling them on her hips as he presses a final kiss to her mouth, lingering and tender. "But as we've nearly arrived…tell me, love, how much of your lipstick am I wearing?" he asks with a smile as they break apart, gently easing her back into her own seat.

She laughs, running her thumb across his lip to try to remove the pink tint. "A lot. I don't know if I can get it all off."

"Worth it," is all he says in response, his eyes bright with happiness.

* * *

Many thanks to the always lovely oncesnow for the beta assistance with this chapter as August continues to attempt to swallow onceuponsomechaos whole.

I've been asked a number of times how long this fic is going to be, and my answer has always been 24 chapters and an epilogue. Well, and I'm sure you're all going to be just so disappointed, I decided while doing a reread this weekend of the ending that it's actually going to be 25 chapters and epilogue. So we're still nearly there, but one more chapter!

For those who have made outtake requests I haven't posted yet, I haven't forgotten about you! I'm still working on those as well and will try to have them all finished by the end of hiatus.

Oh, and I know they are taking down the love locks in Paris so they're not there anymore. They were still up when I started writing the fic so the scene stayed :)


	24. Chapter 24

The after party is packed. The ensemble cast certainly has something to do with it, but no matter where they turn, someone is waiting to congratulate Killian on his performance.

Emma is happy to stay by his side, pride radiating from him as she leans her head to his shoulder, breathes him in. He's polite and engaging with friends and well-wishers alike, but he doesn't let her go, one hand constantly touching her whether it's his palm on her hip or his fingers absently toying with her hair.

But as the party winds down, he suddenly stiffens beside her, his fingers curled tightly around her arm, a curse on his lips. "What's wrong?" she asks, following his gaze across the room.

"Gold." The word is strangled, his eyes fixed on someone Emma doesn't see, but she doesn't miss how he angles his body in front of hers.

"Here?"

"Aye."

"How?"

"No bloody idea."

"Let's go home."

"Emma, that...that bastard did everything in his power to take you from me."

"But he didn't win. We have each other. C'mon, he's not worth it." Emma tugs lightly on his arm, a growing sense of unease churning in the pit of her stomach. Killian has come so far from his reputation as a drunk with a temper. She can't let him throw it away on this.

No matter how badly she would love to have it out with the asshole herself.

"Emma…"

"Please."

He only hesitates another moment, his jaw tight and his shoulders high, but in the end he sighs. "As you wish, love." It's a visible struggle for him to relax, his grip on her loosening as they turn for the door.

"Not leaving on my account, are you, dearie?"

Emma whips around at the question, the movement so fast her skirt flares around her legs. She doesn't have to ask to know that _this_ is Gold, a greasy little man with a limp. He's _trying_ to piss Killian off, and judging by the tense muscle under her fingers, it's working.

"You're pathetic," she snaps before she can stop herself, pressing slightly closer to Killian. "You used a _child_ in some petty battle only you were fighting. Your wife cheated on you. Take it up with her. Leave Killian out of it. Leave my _son_ out of it. Go home to your wife, if you even know where she is."

"I'm afraid it's not quite so simple. You see…"

"I don't give a shit." Emma takes a step closer, towering over him in her heels. "You're going to leave us alone."

"Or what, dearie?"

Emma smiles, letting all of the malice and hatred for the man who nearly ruined everything flow into her expression. "You spent a great deal of time looking into my past. You know what I'm capable of, and that was when I didn't have anything to live for, when I didn't have a family to protect."

"Ah, yes. How is your son faring being raised by a criminal and a sorry excuse of a man?"

Emma doesn't think. She just acts, her arm moving by itself until knuckles connect with bone, Gold's surprised-filled face instantly snapped to the side by the power of the blow. He crumples to the ground, blood already leaking from his lip. "Stay the hell away from us," she spits, shaking her hand as she begins to walk away.

"Not very clever, Miss Swan, to assault a man in a room full of witnesses."

Emma glances around the room. With the party almost over, the crowd has thinned, but she knows all the remaining faces. They're members of the cast and crew, people who trust Killian, who _like_ him. These are the people who were with him, who saw what Gold's malice did to him.

One by one, they turn away from the scene, resuming their conversations in a clear show of support. David is the only one to move across the room, but all he does is glare at the wretched man. "Time to go, Gold."

Emma reaches for Killian's hand, winding her fingers with his as he stares at her in stunned silence. The touch seems to wake him from his stupor, his arm wrapping protectively around her as they start toward the door.

"Are you all right, love?" He uses his free hand to reach across her body, gingerly touching the red and already swelling knuckles of her right hand.

"I'm okay. It actually felt really good."

"Aye, I imagine so. I've wanted to do that for quite a time."

"I'm sorry I lost my temper."

"Don't be." He presses a kiss to her hair, another to her sore hand. "It's more shameful for him that it was you."

"Think he'll leave us alone?"

Killian sighs, shaking his head as he helps her into the waiting car. "Alas, no. But you've given him sufficient motivation to avoid crashing another event like this."

* * *

Promotion for the movie takes him away from them once again, and with Henry's school schedule, he goes to the other premieres alone. It's weeks of rushed calls, Facetime conversations that end too quickly and text messages that can never really say everything she means.

They're apart on Halloween, and though she spends the night watching horror movies with Henry, she misses Killian all the more without him to carve pumpkins and charm trick-or-treaters.

But he'll be home for Thanksgiving, and after last year, she knows exactly how much it means to him.

To both of them.

He's due back tomorrow, but it's hard to sleep without him in their bed, and she finds herself on the porch swing wrapped in one of his sweaters. She's restless even after baking tonight, the beautiful kitchen Killian had renovated for her before they moved in offering little solace. He'll happily eat one of the chocolate cupcakes for breakfast when he gets in, but until then, she's stuck waiting, the kitchen empty without him. She rocks her foot back and forth, staring at the endless expanse of stars stretching across the night sky.

Headlights appear on the road, visible from far off, and Emma has to scold herself for the way her heart begins to race. He's not coming home tonight, no matter how badly she wishes it. He texted her a few hours ago, said he was about to leave for the airport in London and would see her soon.

But the headlights turn up the driveway.

"It's three a.m., love. I expected to find you warm in our bed," he chastises gently as he gets out of the car, exhaustion visible in his features even in the dim light of the stars.

"And I expected you tomorrow. London?" she asks with a raised eyebrow, meeting him on the stairs with her hands on her hips in a teasing display belied by her smile.

"Burbank. I wanted to surprise you." He chuckles at her perturbed expression, his palm sliding under her sweater to find smooth, warm skin. "I was going to crawl into bed and wake you up in a most sinful manner." His hand explores beneath her clothes as he bends to kiss her, a hungry kiss filled with longing. "But as you're already awake…"

"Mmm…" She leans back in his arms, tracing the shadows under his eyes. "You're exhausted, Killian. Tell me you didn't do something stupid to come home early. I know you can't sleep on planes."

"I was gone too long. I despise being separated from you."

She smiles, leaning back in for a slow kiss, savouring the taste of him, the warmth of his arms around her. She doesn't argue, because in spite of how tired he is, she's thrilled to have him home tonight, to have their quiet reunion while Henry is asleep and not muttering _gross_ under his breath. "C'mon, let's get you inside. Have you eaten? There's some leftover chicken from dinner."

"Really, Emma, I would rather...you made chocolate cupcakes?" He perks up once she's tugged him into the kitchen, setting his bag down and eyeing the counter filled with his favorites. He snatches one before she can stop him, gleefully taking a huge bite that manages to smear chocolate all over his face.

"Just couldn't help yourself, could you?" she asks wryly, wiping frosting from his chin before turning to the fridge, pulling out bread and the aforementioned chicken. "Sit." She points to one of the barstools at the island, reaching back into the fridge for more supplies. "If you're going to eat cupcakes, you're going to get real food too."

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips, but he sits anyway. "You do know I'm not Henry, darling."

"Doesn't mean I can't take care of you."

He smiles in response, reaching for the stack of mail and starting to rummage through it. If it were any other night, she wouldn't catch it, but he's been gone for weeks and she can't take her eyes off him. He sees something in the mail, something that makes him pale and then flush right to the tips of his ears.

"Killian?"

"Hmm?" His expression is filled with guilt, his eyes darting around the kitchen before settling on her. He's usually better at masking his emotions, but he's exhausted, and she's gotten good at reading him.

"What's in the mail that upset you?"

"It's nothing."

"Killian." She sighs, reaching across the counter to flip through the stack, her puzzlement only growing. He hasn't opened any of the envelopes, and nothing looks out of place to her. Some junk mail, a few bills, and a postcard from Elsa. "Oh, this was sweet of her," Emma says, momentarily distracted by the photo of bright blue water. "Look, my lawyer sent me…"

He flinches.

"This? The postcard upset you?" Emma scowls at the innocent-looking note before looking back at him, the sandwich half-assembled and forgotten. "Why?"

He sighs, running his hand through his hair before meeting her gaze. "I wasn't aware you were still in touch with her, that's all."

"Uh-uh. I saw your face. What's going on?" She glances back at the postcard, but there's nothing in Elsa's simple message that gives any clue as to why he looks _guilty_ of all things.

"It's nothi…" He doesn't finish the word, scratching behind his ear and staring at the counter before finally looking up at her with a sigh. "I… I knew if I tried to offer you funds to pay for a reputable attorney to win your case, you wouldn't have taken it. So I located the attorney instead and paid her fee...and requested she not reveal my involvement." His eyes flicker over her face before drifting to the cabinets at her back, his fingers nervously scratching behind his ear.

"You hired an attorney for me?"

"Aye." He shifts on the barstool, his eyes falling again to the counter, one finger dragging over the patterns in the granite. "I wanted to help, but…"

She moves around the island, pressing a soft kiss to his lips that turns deeper as he twists to face her. He tastes like chocolate, and she's not sure how it's possible to love the man more, but she does. Even when she gave him no reason to love her, even when she was bound and determined to shove him away, he was still looking out for her – and for Henry.

"You're not mad?" he asks when she backs away, running her fingers through his hair, unable to stop touching him.

"Of course not. I would've been, then, if I had known," she admits, pressing her palm to his cheek once more before resuming the assembly of his sandwich. "But I would have been wrong, Killian. I thought it was the right thing to do at the time, but I never should have taken off that day. I was hurt, and I was terrified."

* * *

They've never really talked about it, not since the afternoon he found her on Granny's ranch so many months ago. Emma hasn't brought it up, and he's been happy to let well enough alone.

But tonight, she's open and she's honest, and their relationship has come a long way since those tentative days. "Do you think...would you have come back, if I hadn't run into you that day?"

She doesn't answer right away, carefully cutting the sandwich in half and putting the plate in front of him. "No," she responds, her eyes still on the counter. She takes a deep breath, twisting her fingers together. "Maybe." The word is heavy with emotion, her voice choked. "I don't know, Killian. After everything that happened between us, and those photos…I couldn't imagine a scenario in which you would still want me." When she finally looks at him, her eyes shine, and he hates himself for asking, for dragging up the old hurts, but she's smiling through her tears. "You don't know how happy I am that I was wrong."

"I have wanted you from the moment you walked into that house, beautiful and full of fire. I won't ever stop, Emma. I'll want you – I'll love you – until the day I die." He's exhausted, and he's flown all day to get to her, driven hours from the airport, but he's suddenly very awake as their eyes lock.

"Eat your sandwich. I'll bring your bag upstairs." He's positive he's not imagining how breathless she suddenly sounds, the brightening of her eyes.

"Leave it," he says quietly, reaching for her and tugging her close. "I'm not hungry."

She slips out of his grasp, pushing the sandwich closer. "I know how you are with airport food. You need to eat something. And take a shower, because you won't be able to sleep until you do." She leans in again, her breath hot on his ear. "Eat the sandwich, Killian. I'll make sure the shower is ready for you." She presses a quick kiss to his cheek before she goes, and he stares after her, of half a mind to ignore the damn sandwich.

But she knows him well. He hasn't eaten much, and without her in his arms as a distraction, his stomach gives a grumble of disapproval for such treatment. "Bloody minx," he mutters to himself, but he can't help a smile.

He never thought he would have the sort of life where he could come home to a woman like Emma, a woman who loves him and wants to care for him as much as he wants to take care of her. The lonely nights spent crawling into a bottle seem like another lifetime ago, another person entirely, and he thinks he really ought to thank Regina again.

He eats too fast, swiping another cupcake from the counter as he heads upstairs, the sound of running water greeting him as he walks into their bedroom, licking chocolate frosting from his fingers. "Emma?" he calls softly, pulling his shirt free from his jeans and starting on the buttons.

"In here."

With a shiver of anticipation, he follows her voice into the bathroom. She's standing next to the shower, a towel wrapped around her with one hand under the spray, testing the water. "Are you joining me, love?"

"Someone has to make sure you don't fall asleep." The words burn with promise, her hands reaching for his clothes to finish the job he's started. She kisses him as she undresses him, a brush of her lips on his shoulder, the glide of her tongue across a nipple, and it's the most delicious kind of torture.

At some point, her towel falls, and it takes all his willpower not to carry her back into the bedroom, sod the shower. But she pulls him under the water with her, kneading the tense muscles along the back of his neck. His eyes slide shut, a groan falling from his lips at the sheer pleasure of it – Emma, her touch, the warm water, being _home_.

"Not falling asleep, are you?"

He opens his eyes, giving her a lazy smirk as he tugs her closer. "Perhaps you should wake me up."

"Well, I suppose…" Her tone is playful, but her touch is purposeful, her fingers dancing down his ribs, over his hip and wrapping firmly around his aching flesh.

He leans his forehead into hers, his breathing becoming erratic. He's missed her – her touch, the intimacy of her skin on his, the glimmer in her eye when she knows she's aroused him. He's positive that glimmer is there now, and sure enough when he pulls his head back to look at her, she's watching him, lips parted.

She stretches to kiss him as he's leaning down, their lips meeting as her fingers relinquish their hold on him. "You'll be the death of me," he manages to get out, his heart racing and desire flooding his veins. "Emma, I want..."

"Patience." She reaches behind him for his shampoo, pouring the liquid into her hands before reaching for him. "Someone once told me that when it was my turn, I could take as long as I liked." Her fingers massage his scalp as she works the shampoo through his hair, and it's a different sort of pleasure, but it's not what he _wants_.

"Sounds like a bloody fool." He leans back into the spray, rinsing quickly before reaching behind him for the tap.

"Hey, I wasn't…"

"I was." He can barely tolerate drying off, water droplets still clinging to his shoulders as he lifts her into his arms and turns for their bed, the soft glow of the lamp on her skin an enticement he doesn't need. "I missed you," he murmurs as he sets her down, pulling back the blankets and sheets.

"Show me." It's an invitation and a promise, and he doesn't care how tired he is, he's going to have her before he falls asleep.

His touch is light at first, skimming his fingers over her curves and watching goosebumps rise in his wake. She reaches for him, pulls him into a kiss and arches against him, but he isn't willing to give in yet. Instead he follows his touch with his tongue and lips, the familiar taste of her skin making his resolve crumble as her breath becomes unsteady.

He kisses a path up the inside of her thigh, pausing only long enough to tease her with an open-mouthed kiss between her thighs before sitting up and pulling her onto his lap, her hair tumbling around her as she grabs onto his shoulders. "I missed you, too," she says in a breathless whisper, right before she sinks down, surrounding him with the slick heat of her body.

One kiss turns to another and another as she moves, one of his hands on her hip to steady her, to press her all the more tightly to him as he tilts his hips, striving for the angle the makes her gasp and dig her nails into his shoulder. It doesn't take much to send them both over the edge, weeks of pent-up longing exploding in his veins as she falls apart in his arms.

"Thank you for coming home early," she mumbles, already half-asleep as he gathers her close, his limbs heavy with a well-sated exhaustion.

"Thank you for being here."

"Always."

* * *

Many thanks to the always lovely oncesnow for beta duties!

One more chapter to go and the epilogue. Sort of strange this thing is nearly done - I never expected to still be working on it this close to the end of hiatus!

School resumes today for me, so I may not be around as much. Updates shouldn't get out of control on timing and I think we'll still be wrapping this up in the next two weeks or so. For those of you back to the school grind with me, my sympathies.


	25. Chapter 25

With the weeks of press finally concluded and the holidays upon them, life settles down for their small family. Emma luxuriates in having Killian beside her in bed every morning, in having the ability to simply snuggle closer and kiss him.

"Do you have to go back to Los Angeles before Thanksgiving?" she asks one morning, her fingers combing his messy hair. It's still early and the house is quiet, the stillness sure to be broken by Henry in another few hours.

"Not that I'm aware of. Why do you ask?"

"I thought...Thanksgiving. I want to have it out here. And I know that means that David and Mary Margaret probably won't come, but I just thought it would be nice…"

His kiss stops her, lips gentle as they move with hers. "Thanksgiving here would be lovely," he says softly, pushing her hair back from her eyes.

"It's just...it's our first holiday as a...together, and I…"

"You don't have to explain, love. I understand. It's been quite the year, and a quiet holiday at home with just you and Henry sounds perfect." He pauses, pressing a kiss to her forehead before tucking her closer. "You know I care for Dave as though he were a brother, but I don't want to share you either, Emma. Not this year. We can have a big Christmas celebration in LA with everyone."

"I'd like that. I pictured it, you know. The house all done up for Christmas, decorating a tree with you. I wanted it so badly, Killian. And then I was with Elsa's family and…" The words catch in her throat and she stops, burrowing closer to the solid warmth of his chest with tight lungs.

"Last Christmas, I locked myself in my hotel room for three days and drank all the bloody scotch I could get my hands on. This year is going to be different. This year I have you and Henry. We have each other." Killian's voice is thick with emotion as his arms tighten around her, and Emma kisses his shoulder before closing her eyes. Silence falls over them as she breathes him in, her thoughts wandering into the future.

She's never cooked a Thanksgiving dinner before. There was one family, a long time ago, that had a proper Thanksgiving, but most years she counted herself lucky if there was some form of turkey, maybe pie if it was a good year.

She'll be damned if there isn't pie this year. Rich and creamy pumpkin pie. Apple pie with crust from scratch. Killian can have all the chocolate cupcakes she can possibly make any other day, but he'll have pie on Thanksgiving and he'll like it.

"I'm not making chocolate pie," she announces abruptly, drawing a throaty laugh from him she feels in his chest.

"I wasn't aware I requested chocolate pie, love," he says with a kiss against her hair, and she can hear the smile she can't see.

"Thanksgiving is apple pie and pumpkin pie. No chocolate." She leans back in his arms to meet his amused stare. "We're going to have a painfully traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey and stuffing and yam casserole."

"Swan, do you know how to make yam casserole?"

"Not a clue."

Killian shakes his head, but his smile is radiant as he bends to kiss her again.

In the end, they skip the casserole, but Emma spends the day cooking more food than the three of them could possibly eat. Killian and Henry help, though it takes them twice as long as it should to peel potatoes amidst their animated conversation regarding the merits of the NFL.

"It's Thanksgiving, Killian. Football and Thanksgiving."

"Lad, we've just spent the summer watching real football. Your mother is cooking us a lovely meal. Why must we mar it with this disgraceful imitation of sport?"

Henry is intent on peeling the potato in his hand and doesn't see Killian's eyes meet Emma's in exaggerated innocence. She turns back to the sink to hide her smile, their squabbling entirely welcome.

The meal is everything she dreamed up, laughter and teasing and far too much turkey with nothing prepared out of a box. Killian shoos her out of the kitchen when she attempts to wash the dishes, but she sneaks back anyway to watch him and Henry.

Her son is nearly a teenager, and soon he's going to be taller than she is. Standing side by side with Killian at the sink, his hair only shades lighter, their conversation is too quiet for her to make out, but they're happy – they're _both_ happy.

Henry hasn't asked about Neal. Emma knows the questions will come, one day, but for now he seems all too pleased to simply accept their life as it is now. Emma isn't entirely sure where Henry gets his enduring optimism from – it's not her or Neal – but she's trying to learn from it, to accept the good as it comes.

Like the unexpected treasure of Killian slipping into the role of fatherhood so effortlessly. She's known for a long time now that Killian loves her son, thinks of him as his own, but there are still moments where it hits her that this is her life now – holidays that are happy, filled with love and _family_.

A year ago she was eating a turkey sandwich in a horrible motel room, her entire life crumbling around her; two years ago she spent the night in her car drinking gas station coffee waiting for some sleazeball who skipped out on his child support. But as Emma slips back to the couch before they notice her, a smile plays across her lips and her heart is full.

It's good to have Killian home again, to come home from work to find him helping Henry with his homework at the kitchen table or cooking dinner. They slide into a routine of sorts, but Emma notices as they move further into December, Killian grows noticeably more anxious.

"What's going on?" she finally asks once Henry has gone to bed, laying her hand against his jiggling knee. "Something is obviously bothering you."

Killian sighs, leaning back against the couch cushions and lacing their fingers together. "There's been a bit of talk about the movie I did with David," he says slowly, his eyes focused on the coffee table.

"I read the reviews with you. They were great. _You_ were great."

"Aye, that's the thing. Regina has been...they announce the nominations day after tomorrow for the Golden Globes. I've never...Regina believes…"

"What time is the announcement?"

"Five in the morning."

"Henry and I will watch with you, then. I'll make pancakes."

"At that hour?"

"I'll make hot chocolate," Emma concedes, snuggling closer. "This would be the first one, right?"

"Aye. The other awards…" He shrugs, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "It's not that they didn't matter, but this…"

"Do _you_ think you'll be nominated?"

"I don't bloody know, Swan. A part of me doesn't want it. The fuss that comes with it. I just want to make movies. But these awards...I never imagined I would be in this position." His voice is soft, but there's a trembling hope it the words Emma has never heard before. She reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tightly.

Two days later, at six minutes past five, Killian's name is called and their quiet, dark living room explodes with joy. His phone starts ringing almost instantly, but Killian ignores it, arms wrapped around her and Henry in a fierce hug.

"Thank you," he whispers in her ear, his voice low and tight. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy but he's grinning madly.

"You're totally going to win," Henry says as he hands Killian his phone, Regina's name lighting up the display.

"You think so?"

"Oh yeah." Henry glances at Emma sheepishly before turning back to Killian. "So Mom said I couldn't watch it because, you know, some of the scenes. And I know I should have listened to you," he says, and he looks so guilty Emma can't help but smile. "But I was really curious and Tom was going, and, well, when your dad is in a movie you kind of have to see it. And you were awesome." Henry glances down at the phone still in his hand, completely unaware of the way both Emma and Killian have frozen in place.

"Regina has called three times. I think she really wants to talk to you, so I'm going back to sleep until school."

Without further ado, Henry hands Killian the vibrating cell phone and walks out of the room, leaving Emma to stare after him. "Did you hear...did he…"

"Yes," she whispers, wrapping her arms around Killian as tightly as she can and burrowing her face in his shoulder.

"I love you, Swan. You and Henry."

"I love you, too. And you heard Henry." Emma's chest is tight with emotion, happy tears stinging her eyes as she closes them and breathes in his familiar scent. On the coffee table, Emma's phone starts to buzz, and she laughs when she sees Regina's name. "I think you had better talk to her." She brushes her lips against his cheek and slips out of the room.

Henry's door is open when she gets upstairs. Emma knocks softly as she sticks her head into the room to find Henry just getting back into bed. He glances up at her entrance, confusion on his face. "You okay, Mom?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're crying." Henry points at her face. Emma is surprised to find her cheeks damp, the tears she thought she contained set free.

She takes a seat on the edge of Henry's bed, the mattress dipping under her weight as she tries to collect her thoughts. Killian is always better at talking, at articulating his emotions, and she's been trying, she really has, but she still doesn't know where to start.

"Happy tears," she finally manages to say, smiling as she wipes her cheek. Henry smiles back, flopping into his pillows.

"It's really cool he got nominated. It's a big deal, right?"

"It's a really big deal." Emma pauses, carefully watching Henry's face as she fidgets with her hands in her lap. "Henry, you said something downstairs, and…" She stops, sighing and glancing at the open door. She wishes she had waited for Killian, for them to have this conversation together, because he would know what to say. "You referred to Killian as your dad."

Henry shrugs. "He's the best dad I've ever had. Sometimes I wish...sometimes I wish it was always like this. The other places weren't all that bad, but this is...different."

Emma leans forward to hug Henry close, her eyes stinging once again. "We both love you so much, Henry."

"Love you too, Mom." He lets her hold him for another few seconds before he pushes on her shoulder, yawning in her ear. "Can I go back to sleep now?"

Emma nods, pressing a kiss against his forehead before turning out the light and going back downstairs to find Killian.

It's a long day of juggling phone calls and getting Henry to school and Emma's shift at the ranch, but by the end of it, exhausted as she is, she's still practically vibrating with energy as she falls into bed beside Killian. "Good day?" she asks, reaching for his hand and curling their fingers together.

"Spent most of it on the phone." He rolls onto his side, eyes bright and entirely focussed on her. "Until I went to pick up Henry, of course. We talked a bit."

"Oh?" she asks lightly, tracing a pattern over his arm with her nail.

"I don't know the faintest thing about being a father, Swan. I've been simply doing my best to follow your lead, to ensure he's happy. I had hoped, that maybe in time...but he meant what he said this morning, didn't he?" Killian's voice is quiet, the words filled with a measure of wonder as he strokes his thumb across her cheek.

"He meant it," she whispers back, tugging him closer.

* * *

The weeks between the nomination announcement and Christmas are a whirlwind. Killian loves everything about being home with Emma and Henry, falling into a routine of home-cooked meals and school drop-offs.

But when Regina insists he return to LA for a few days to do some promotional work for his nomination, he goes.

It's always strange to be in the house in the hills these days alone, to not have Emma's voice and Henry's laugh echoing through the halls – the empty house is too much of an invitation for dark memories and too much rum. Though he has to be up early for an appearance on the local morning show, David has spent the evening with him on the patio talking about nothing and everything.

"Henry referred to me as his dad," he says after a few rounds, leaning back in his lounge chair and staring down at the city lights. He's not entirely sure why he's kept it to himself, this precious gift Henry has given him, but he hasn't told David about their conversation the day of the nominations.

David grins, nudging his shoulder into Killian's and reaching over to clink their bottles together. "That's great." He pulls his arm back, and Killian knows there's more he wants to ask, knows it by his careful silence and sideways glances.

"Just ask, Dave. Whatever you want to ask, ask it already."

"You could adopt him, you know. I'm sure Emma would be thrilled."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps? Killian, she loves you. I've seen you all together. You've been a family practically since that day we found her on the ranch. Making it legal won't change anything." David stops, shooting Killian another of his sideways glances. "You could make something else legal too, you know."

"I've had a ring for months," Killian says after a long silence, avoiding David's undoubtedly incredulous expression.

" _Months?_ How have you not…"

"I don't want to ruin what we have," Killian cuts in, finally glancing over at his friend. "Emma...I love that woman, I love her more than bloody life itself, but you and I both know she doesn't always do well with big changes. She needs time to grow accustomed to things on her own. I haven't quite sorted how to ask without it being a shock."

"Probably not on stage."

"You're hilarious, Dave."

"It's why we've been friends for so long. I keep you entertained."

"Something like that," Killian mutters darkly, taking a sip off his beer and glancing at the lights below.

"Still planning to do Christmas here?" Dave asks after a beat, the change of subject welcome.

"Aye. Henry's holiday from school begins next week. Emma has several weeks off from the ranch, so we'll have Christmas here and then the beach for New Year's. They deserve a proper vacation, not another round of following my press obligations and appointments."

"You deserve a vacation too, man. It's been quite the year."

"Aye," Killian agrees quietly, a smile tugging at his lips. "That is has, mate."

* * *

Emma greatly underestimated Killian's enthusiasm for Christmas decorations.

When she enters the living room late the Friday before Christmas after the long drive back from the ranch house with a tired Henry drooping behind her, Killian is on the floor surrounded by a mountain of boxes.

"Did you buy the entire store's worth of lights?" she asks mildly as he looks up at them, his brow furrowed and his expression bordering on bewildered.

"It's a big house, Swan."

"What happened to us doing this tomorrow?" She shares an amused grin with Henry, turning back to Killian with a raised brow at the tangle of lights in his lap.

"It didn't seem like it would be so bloody difficult to hang some lights!"

Emma laughs, carefully stepping between the bags and boxes of decorations to bend close and kiss his scruffier-than-usual cheek. "Tomorrow, Killian. I'm exhausted. Come to bed. I'll make waffles in the morning, we'll untangle the lights and it will all be fine."

"Mom promised waffles _and_ muffins in the car," Henry chimes in from behind them, half-asleep and leaning against the wall. "Don't let her skip the muffins."

Emma holds her hand out to Killian, who gets to his feet begrudgingly, tugging her closer to wrap an arm around her shoulders as he maneuvers himself free of the mess. "I suppose your mother is right," he says to Henry with a wink Emma catches out of the corner of her eye.

"You want help untangling those lights or not?" She jabs her elbow into his side, but there's no force behind it and she doesn't resist when he bends to kiss her.

"I'm going to bed." Emma can practically hear Henry rolling his eyes, and he's halfway down the hall when she pulls back from Killian's embrace.

"Goodnight, Henry," Killian calls after him, grinning at Emma as she tugs him toward their bedroom. "I'm glad you're home."

It's strange for a woman who spent nearly her entire life feeling as though she never had a home to suddenly find herself with two, but Emma embraces it. She spends Saturday decorating the house with Killian and Henry, and it may be a sunny, seventy-degree day, but it's never felt more like Christmas.

Especially when she glances out the window to witness Killian - complete with Santa hat - stringing lights around the palm trees in the yard.

He's still wearing the hat when he comes back into the house, humming Silent Night under his breath. Emma leans back against the mantle she's been arranging candles on, folding her arms and watching him with an amused smirk. "You're adorable sometimes," she says softly as he comes up to her.

"Adorable, love? Not very manly, that." Killian takes her wrists gently, unfolding her arms and stepping closer as he drapes them over his shoulders. "I prefer dashing."

He swallows her laughter with a kiss, and she expects him to press into her, to take advantage of Henry's absence from the room, but all he does is brush his lips against hers, light as a feather.

"Merry Christmas." His breath is warm against her cheek, his eyes bright when he leans back.

"Christmas isn't until Wednesday."

"Christmas is twelve days, Swan. There's even a song."

"Adorable."

"Dashing."

This time when he kisses her, he leaves her breathless.

She finds herself thinking about that kiss as she fidgets before the mirror in their closet, tugging on her dress. Killian is in the kitchen, minding the stove while she dresses for dinner, but she wishes she had him in here to reassure her. It's only David and his family coming for dinner, and they've had plenty of dinners together before, but this is _Christmas_ and she wants to get it right.

She remembers last Christmas, the easy warmth of Elsa's family, the beautiful house and snow and meal, and wonders if she can possibly pull this off.

"You look beautiful," Killian says as he appears in the mirror behind her, his arms folding around her waist. He bends to press a kiss against her temple, tugging her back against his chest. His eyes find hers in the mirror, intense and thoughtful. "Emma, I…"

"They're here!" Henry calls from the hallway, interrupting whatever Killian was about to say and the moment passes. He grins, spinning her in his arms to kiss her soundly before weaving their fingers together and pulling her with him.

It's a good night.

"I'm glad you found your way back to each other." Mary Margaret is helping her pack up the leftovers, and when she says it, Emma turns to her with a measure of surprise. They've never talked about the break-up, about what happened between Emma and Killian and all those months apart.

Mary Margaret smiles at Emma's expression, nodding toward David and Killian where they're still sitting at the table with Henry, Leo on his father's lap. "I don't mean to upset you. I was just thinking about last Christmas, and…"

"Thank you," Emma cuts in, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking. She doesn't want to go back down this road - she doesn't want to think about last Christmas another damn time tonight.

"Emma." Mary Margaret snaps the lid onto the container in front of her before resting her hand on Emma's arm. "I wasn't just thinking about last year. There were a lot of other years. Killian...Killian spent a lot of holidays with us, before. Usually after David badgered him into it and went to pick him up because he was too drunk to come over on his own. You're good for him. Really good. I've never seen him this happy."

"Yeah," Emma says quietly, because she's still not good with words. "He makes me happy."

There's a secret in Mary Margaret's smile, but it's not until a few days later that Emma thinks she's figured it out.

They're leaving tomorrow for a well-deserved vacation in the Caribbean. Henry is excited, chatting animatedly about pirates and shipwrecks, in spite of Emma's assurances they're staying on a secluded resort. Snorkeling and ziplining, yes. Shipwrecks, no.

Killian is out with David when she finds the small box buried at the back of the safe in the house in the hills, her fingers brushing against smooth velvet unexpectedly as she reaches in for their passports. She hesitates, certain she should close the safe and ignore the box, but she can't help herself.

She knows before she opens it what she's going to find, but her heart still races at the sparkle of the diamonds in the light. The ring is beautiful, a simple design that suits her taste but is still generous enough with the diamonds to satisfy his need to provide the best. Kneeling down beside the safe, she carefully closes the box, clasping it tightly in one hand held against her heart as she struggles with the tightness in her throat.

He's going to ask her to _marry_ him. She can't help remembering the fear the thought used to bring, but all she wants now is for him to come home and ask. She knows he won't – Killian would never be satisfied to ask such an important question without great fanfare. But they _are_ going on vacation, to a secluded, beautiful resort with plenty of romantic beaches, _and_ they're going to be there for New Year's.

Emma smiles to herself, carefully putting the box back where she found it, buried beneath other paperwork in the very back of the safe.

She watches him when he comes home, looks for any trace of nervousness, any sign he's up to something. But if anything, he's more relaxed than she's seen him in weeks, an easy smile on his lips.

He's no different when they arrive at the resort, splashing around in the ocean with Henry, making suggestive remarks under his breath about her bathing suits when her son is out of earshot. He's affectionate and warm, and Emma has nothing to complain about but when midnight comes on New Year's, he doesn't ask her anything more important than whether or not she wants another glass of champagne while she's trying to catch her breath from their kiss.

She tells herself she's being ridiculous for being disappointed. He bought a ring. He wants to marry her. He's just not ready to ask her yet, to make it official. They're in the middle of awards season. It's a lot of pressure with his nomination.

But her imagination is too active to leave it at that. Is he having doubts about her? About their life together? Did he buy the ring on impulse, but now he isn't sure? He acts like he's more in love with her than ever. He can't keep his hands off her, much to Henry's disgust, and he still looks at her like she's hung the moon.

He still sits in the kitchen with her in the middle of the night when she can't sleep, comes up behind her and kisses her neck softly while she pipes frosting.

He can still set her body on fire with a single look.

They're back in Los Angeles for the Golden Globes when it finally gets to be too much for her. Henry is staying with a friend from school for the weekend, leaving Emma and Killian alone at the house in the hills. She almost wishes she hadn't agreed to coming to Los Angeles without him, but award shows are not a thirteen-year-old's idea of a good time.

But tonight, she's not thinking about that. She's thinking about the safe in their bedroom closet. She checked earlier while Killian was in shower to make sure the ring was still there, and sure enough, it hasn't moved from its place tucked away in the back.

It's one of those nights she used to find perfect – they've worked their way through nearly a full bottle of wine, there's a fire and soft music playing. Killian is relaxed, not worried about work or some insane demand from Regina, but instead running his fingers through her hair, practically humming with contentment. Even the near constant anxiety about the awards season has faded away in the peace of the living room.

"I don't think there are words in any language for me to tell you how much I love you," he says, his eyes soft with the wine, a smile playing at his lips.

Emma knows what she should do. She should lean into him, kiss him, let him make love to her on the couch while they have the house to themselves, but she's had just enough wine to loosen her tongue. So instead of doing any of the things she should do, she pushes herself up on her elbows, staring down at him as she asks the question that's been on her mind for weeks. "If that's true, when are you going to ask?"

"If it's _true_...Emma, ask what?" His brows draw together in concern as he sits up, drawing her onto his lap even as she jerks her shoulder back.

"I know about the ring. It's been in the safe since Christmas and that was weeks ago. Why haven't you asked? Did you change your mind? I know things haven't always been easy and..." Emma knows she's rambling, staring over his shoulder and trying desperately to ignore their current position, her knees digging into the couch cushions on either side of his hips – but she can't stop. "But I thought...I mean, if you don't want this, you had better tell me now, because..."

He cuts her off with a kiss so possessive and demanding she can't help but think of the first night he kissed her like this, angry and jealous and determined to have her. This isn't the same – he's not angry, and this kiss is welcome – but it's the same fierceness in the press of his lips and the sweep of his tongue.

She breaks the kiss, pulling back with a low moan. She can't let him seduce her now, with this question hanging between them. Is he only kissing her to change the topic? It doesn't feel that way, but he hasn't said anything, his own breaths short as he brushes the hair out of her eyes.

"Emma, I have had that ring for much longer than a few weeks," he finally says, his voice low.

"But then why…"

"Do you know when I bought it?" he interrupts, his eyes sparking with a fire she knows all too well. He shifts beneath her, drawing a gasp from her lips at the friction it causes.

"In Scotland?" she asks, struggling to stay focused on the conversation as his hand wanders over her body, slipping under her shirt to splay his fingers over the small of her back, pressing her hips into his.

"Before that." He leans forward, pressing a trail of kisses along her shoulder, his tongue pushing the strap of her tank top out of the way.

" _Before_ Scotland?"

"Aye."

"Killian…" His name is a plea, and she can hardly tell if she's asking about the ring, or for him to do something about the ache he's started between her thighs.

He stops then, his expression turning serious as he sits up, Emma still in his lap. He presses a gentle kiss to her jaw, then another, until their lips meet. This kiss isn't like the other, but softer. The breath he draws when they separate is almost shaky, and she can see his throat move as he swallows. "Do you remember the night after we went to see Leo at the hospital?"

"Of course I remember. That was the day I told you about Neal. I told you that was the night I fell in love with you, even if I couldn't admit it then."

"Aye. It was also the night you removed those bloody pillows from the bed for the first time."

"Yeah, but I put them back the next day. Denial and all," she says, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. What do the pillows have to do with the ring?

"Aye, you did. I wanted to burn all the sodding pillows in the house when you did that." He chuckles, his thumb grazing over her bottom lip, the heat still simmering away in his gaze beside something tender and warm.

"Wait, you're not saying…" The full reality of the implication takes her breath away, the staggering truth of just how long ago he decided he was going to ask her to be his wife.

"I bought the ring the next day," he confirms, and Emma is so surprised that at first, all she can do is stare at him.

"But that was...that was forever ago. I hadn't...at the time, I was still fighting even letting myself _want_ to kiss you. That was before you said you loved me. How…"

"I just knew," he says simply, easy as breathing.

Emma scowls at him, lightly smacking his shoulder. "Then why the hell haven't you asked? I've been making myself crazy, thinking you didn't want me anymore, that you'd bought the ring but changed your mind…"

"I am _never_ going to change my mind about you, Emma." His fingers twist into her hair, pulling her closer for another searing kiss before he releases her, his touch tracing a pattern down her ribs and making her shiver. "I wanted to ask when I came to the ranch the night I found you, but you were still so unsure about us even having a future. If I had asked you that night, I don't think I'd have seen you again. I couldn't risk you disappearing a second time."

Emma sighs, leaning her forehead against his, her hands on his shoulders for balance. She knows he's right – a proposal that night would have felt too much like a band-aid. But she doesn't need to tell him that, to drag up the painful memories. "And since then?"

He shrugs, drawing her closer. "I almost asked you on Christmas. But you once accused me of ruining things between us when I made a grand gesture. I've never doubted since I made the purchase that I want you to be in my life, in my bed, in my heart forever – to be my wife. I needed to be sure the idea of marriage wouldn't run you off."

She leans back, eying him suspiciously as the wheels begin to turn in her mind. "Did you leave the ring in the safe so I would find it?"

He grins up at her, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "Emma, if I wanted that ring to have stayed hidden, I wouldn't have moved it from where it's been since I bought it."

"But...why...do you have any idea how _freaked out_ I've been thinking you were having second thoughts about me?"

His expression softens, regret in his eyes. "I apologize for that, love. It was never my idea was to allow you time to make a decision without the pressure of the question before you. I wanted you to be sure you knew what you wanted."

"I...I can't _believe_ you did that to me!"

"I'll make it up to you, I swear it. But tell me, love, are you sure now?" All the teasing has gone out of his voice, the fire back in his eyes. "Do you know what you want?" The last word lingers between them, his tongue running over his bottom lip as he stares up at her.

"Ask me."

He moves to dislodge her from his lap, but Emma pushes his shoulders back into the cushions, her own voice low and simmering. "Ask me," she repeats, her eyes never leaving his.

"Traditionally, one asks this question on his knee."

"When have we ever been traditional? Ask me."

He smirks, that same smirk she fell in love with long before she was willing to admit to it. His hands skim over her thighs, shivers running up her spine at the light touch. One hand works under her shirt, settling possessively on her back while the other traces the line of her jaw. But he's serious once again as he takes a deep breath, his thumb stroking her cheek as he very softly asks, "Emma Swan, will you be my wife?"

"Yes." She barely gets the word out before her lips descend on his, a kiss of relief and passion and love. His arms circle her waist, holding her fast as he stands, hooking her leg around his hips as he moves toward the bedroom.

She rocks her hips against his as he walks, smiling against his lips at the low growl the action elicits, her fingers working open the buttons of his shirt. The moment he sets her down on the edge of the bed, she's pushing the fabric off his shoulders and reaching for the button of his jeans.

"Wait." He stills her hands, bending to kiss her again before backing away. "Don't move."

"Killian…"

"One minute, love." The words drip with promise as he disappears into the closet. Emma smiles to herself, stripping off her tank top and kicking off her shorts. She's about to unhook her bra when he reappears, the small velvet box in his hands.

"I told you not to move," he says, a teasing lilt in his voice as he circles around the bed, his hand on her thigh.

"You've never complained about me taking my clothes off before."

He chuckles, slowly pushing her thighs apart before kneeling between them as she sits on the edge of the bed. "Killian, you don't have to…goh…"

Her fingers thread into his hair as he kisses the inside of her thigh, his breath hot against the sensitive skin before turning his eyes back to hers. "You sure you don't want me on my knees, love?" He doesn't wait for her to answer, nipping lightly at her skin before soothing the spot with his tongue, the hand not holding the jewelry box keeping her in place.

She curses as his kisses move higher, her eyes popping open when she feels him lean back. He never bothered turning on a lamp, but the moon casts the room in a silvery light that catches on the diamonds. He takes the ring carefully out of the box, their eyes meeting once again as he slides the slim band onto her finger, and unless Emma is imagining things, his hand is shaking ever so slightly.

He places a tender kiss on her knuckle right above the ring, lacing their fingers together as the wicked gleam returns to his eyes.

As it turns out, Emma doesn't mind him on his knees one bit.

He knows every inch of her body, but tonight it's like he's determined to learn it all again. She catches him staring at her left hand over and over, a smile curving his lips and joy in his eyes before he resumes his torturous exploration of her flesh. And when he finally buries himself deep inside her, their fingers are twined together, and the groan of satisfaction that spills from his lips sends heat racing through Emma's veins.

She wakes in the morning nestled in his arms, the sunlight glinting off the ring. "Morning, love," he murmurs in her ear, his voice hoarse and sleepy as the arm around her waist tightens.

"Mmm...morning." She snuggles deeper into his grasp, his skin warm against hers. "I want to wake up like this every morning."

He hums his agreement, his lips on her neck, tracing a line of kisses along her shoulder. "Do you know what I want?" he asks, gently tugging on her hip until she's turned to face him.

"What?"

His eyes sparkle with mischief. "Cupcakes."

* * *

Many thanks to oncesnow for beta duties.

The epilogue should go up in a week or two. Hopefully sooner rather than later with all the craziness coming in the next few weeks, but definitely before 5x01.

It has been so wonderful to have so many of you enjoy this fic as much as you have. Thank you for every single kind messages, comment, kudos and like. Feels sort of strange to be at the end of something that has taken over my life since March!

Until next time...


	26. Epilogue

Killian is stunned when his name is called. The walk to the stage is a blur, his heart racing as he concentrates on not tripping in front of colleagues and millions of TV viewers alike.

He never expected to win. Aye, it's a Hollywood cliché, but it _is_ an honor just to be nominated.

His eyes find Emma's as he steps up to the podium and the rest falls away. Regina made him prepare a speech despite his protest he had almost no chance of winning, and he's thankful as he launches into it.

The rehearsed lines calm him, the sensation of slipping into a role known territory. But even as he rattles off the appropriate thank yous to studio heads and directors, there's really only one person he _wants_ to thank.

"And the biggest thank you of all to my incredible fiancée. Emma, you are the best part of my life, and I wouldn't be standing here without you. You make me a better actor, and more importantly, a better man. I love you."

Killian catches the shine in Emma's eyes as he turns to walk off-stage, one hand hovering over her chest where the engagement ring rests on a chain below her dress. She had insisted on it, not wanting to turn this particular night into a media circus over their engagement when the attention should be on him and his accomplishments.

Of course Regina had agreed with her.

Despite her death-trap shoes, Emma manages to make it backstage only moments after him. "I won," he says unnecessarily, grinning for all he's worth as she stops in front of him, very obviously trying not to smile.

"Yes, I see that. But I told you tonight was about you." Emma huffs, but her eyes sparkle and she's doing an increasingly poor job of hiding her smile.

"Aye, but you're a part of me, love." The award is heavy in his hand, and he still can't believe it's really his, but it doesn't stop him from pulling Emma into his arms, her familiar softness and scent grounding him from the overwhelming rush of the win.

"Congratulations, Killian. You deserve this. I couldn't be prouder." She leans back enough to kiss him lightly, but as they break apart the silver chain around her neck catches the light. He rubs his thumb against it, grazing her neck and drawing a shiver out of her that makes him wish they were alone at home.

"Since the jig is up, do you think perhaps…"

Emma smiles up at him, reaching to pull the long chain over her head. The diamonds sparkle as she slides the ring off the chain and puts it in its proper place on her left hand. It's barely been twenty-four hours since he put it there and his chest tightens at the sight. He slips his fingers between hers after carefully tucking the chain into his pocket, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckle above the ring before brushing another against her forehead.

"I don't suppose we could sneak off home to celebrate on our own?"

"Regina will _kill_ you."

"Aye, she'll be here any moment, I'm sure." He ducks to kiss Emma once more, this time making it count. It will be hours yet before they get home, hours of press and appearances. As Regina has so helpfully pointed out, a win at the Globes makes him a strong contender for an Oscar nomination – _a bloody Oscar_ – so it doesn't hurt to socialize with the Academy members.

The award is important, and it's a monumental achievement – but Killian is more interested in celebrating his engagement with his soon-to-be-wife.

"C'mon," Emma says, wrapping her arm around his waist and nudging him with her hip. "The sooner you do the press room the sooner it's over." She stops, giving him what he supposes is her idea of a stern expression. "This night is about _you_ and _your_ accomplishments, okay? They can ask all their questions about us some other night."

"Whatever you say, darling."

Regina finds them on their way to the press, scowling deeply. "We agreed…"

"I'm terribly sorry."

"No, you're not."

"Not in the slightest." He grins at his manager, brushing one last kiss against Emma's cheek before releasing her. "Time to feed the lions," he says cheerfully to Regina, glancing back at Emma. The ring twinkles in the lights as she waves him on his way.

Much, much later, David finds him at the bar of yet another after party as he waits for Emma's wine and his rum. They told their friends about the engagement this morning, along with a call to Henry, but David still slaps him on the shoulder with a hearty, "It's about damn time."

"Why, Dave, I never knew you were such a fan of my work."

"You're an ass. I meant Emma."

Killian's eyes automatically find her in the room, happily chatting away with Mary Margaret. The ring flashes as she moves her hands, leaving a deep sense of contentment in his chest. "I almost can't believe she said yes, mate. To know that she's truly mine, that we will be together…"

David's expression softens, his eyes finding his own wife. "I know the feeling."

* * *

Killian is nominated for the Oscar.

And wins.

In the very early hours of the morning, Emma watches from the doorway as he carefully places the statue next to his other awards, the same awed expression he's been wearing all night still clinging to his features.

He's not wearing his suit jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbows, his tie discarded, but he still paints an appetizing picture. She's seen plenty of Killian in formal wear, but there was something about him in his tux tonight, something about knowing he's going to put on a tux on another important day in the near future, that makes him irresistible.

She walks up behind him slowly, folding her arms around his waist and kissing his shoulder as she rests against him. He leans back into her ever so slightly, a content sigh falling from his lips. "I listened to you tonight. I did not _gush_ , as you so delightfully put it."

Emma smiles against his back, her grip tightening. "They had their fun talking about us last month. Tonight was all about you and your incredible talent."

He turns away from the awards, threading his fingers through her hair. "I wouldn't be here without you."

"I don't know about that."

"Emma." He's serious when he says her name, his eyes as dark blue and intense as she's ever seen them. "I know. You saved me."

She's quiet for a moment, tracing the line of exposed skin between the open collar of his shirt as she tries to gather her thoughts. It's been an emotional few weeks, the high of his win and the stress of the new nomination, all for a movie that represents a dark chapter of their past – but also a testament to their strength.

"Before I met you, hell, even after I met you, I was convinced no one was ever going to save me. I had to save myself. I had to do _everything_ for myself, because I was the only one I could rely on. I was wrong. We've saved each other, Killian. I know it hasn't been an easy road for us, but I can't wait to be your wife."

"I will call you Mrs. Jones every chance I get, until you tire of it."

"I don't think that's going to happen."

"Is that a challenge, Mrs. Jones?"

"That's cheating. We're not married yet."

"Shall we go to the courthouse tomorrow?"

Emma laughs, rolling her eyes at his hopeful expression. "If I thought you were serious, I would say yes in a heartbeat. But I know you. You're too romantic to not want the white dress and the cake and the dancing." Her thoughts wander back to that first Halloween, dancing together in the entryway by candlelight. "Especially the dancing," she adds, voice soft.

His hands slide into position without a word, and there's no music, but they sway together around the room to their own tune. Emma's heart could burst with happiness as she lays her cheek against his shoulder, breathing him in and sighing as his arms curl around her waist.

"We haven't spoken much of the wedding," Killian says after a few minutes. He doesn't stop their dance, still moving easily with her, but there's an undercurrent in the words. "I know you wished for me to focus on the awards, but it's over now."

"You had enough to stress about."

"Marrying you is not a cause of stress."

Emma sighs, stepping out of his embrace and pushing her hair out of her eyes. She doesn't want to have this discussion now – she wants Killian to keep dancing with her, or to strip her out of her dress, or anything but this conversation.

But once she opens her mouth, she can't stop.

"It's not getting married. It's the logistics of getting married. We have to find a venue that we like but won't be overrun by the paparazzi. And is available on a date that works with your shooting schedule. And I'm sure Regina has a mile long list of people she wants you to invite. And I have to find a dress – a dress that every magazine is going to print pictures of and scrutinize and judge. And I don't want to care about any of that, because I want so very badly to marry you, but I do care."

"You've been holding onto that for a fair bit of time, haven't you?"

"Yes," Emma admits reluctantly as she leans back against the wall. "I just... you had enough to deal with."

He frowns, scrubbing his palm over his face before capturing her gaze with a piercing stare. "I need you to understand you are not now, and you will never be, something I have to _deal with_. I want to know when you're upset, darling. Even if you're upset with me." He crosses the distance between them, tugging her back into a fierce hug. "And I don't give a damn about anything other than you being happy and my wife."

"I don't want a giant Hollywood wedding," she mumbles into his chest, the last of the words she's been holding on to for weeks finally escaping. "I know it's expected, and I know this comes with the job, but…"

"There is a lot that comes with this job, but our wedding day is ours, love. _Ours_. Forget Regina. Forget what you believe is expected. What do you _want_ , Emma?" He leans back enough so their eyes catch, and though his voice is gentle, there's a fierce determination in his expression.

"I want to marry you."

He chuckles, kissing her forehead and running a hand down her back. "Aye, and I'm bloody glad for it. But you must have thought about it, if not before, then certainly since we got engaged." His hand finds hers, his thumb rubbing over the ring on her finger.

He's right – she _has_ thought about it. But what she really wants and what's possible…

"I want our house by Granny's," she begins, relieved when Killian only hums in agreement. "I want small. Really small. I want spring when everything is green. And I want daisies even though I know they're not supposed to be wedding flowers. And I don't want to wear shoes."

"All right."

"All right?" Emma fidgets with her ring, finally looking up into his eyes. "That's your answer?"

"Aye. It all sounds lovely. And our home is surely available on any date we choose," he says with a chuckle, his palms cupping her cheeks. "Whatever you desire, Emma. I mean it."

"But Regina…"

"Sod Regina."

"I still have to find a dress."

"Afraid I'm a bit useless in that department. But Mary Margaret would surely go with you and you will be stunning no matter what you choose."

"She _is_ a bridesmaid. I hear I'm supposed to torture them a bit."

"Their wedding was lovely. I recall her being quite beautiful in her dress, so I'm sure she will be glad to assist."

"Beautiful, huh?"

Killian smirks, bending to kiss her. "Not as beautiful as you shall be, love," he all but growls right before delivering a breath-stealing kiss. "Now that's settled, I believe we should go to bed after such a long evening."

"Tired?"

"Not a bit," he responds with a gleam in his eye. "But I will be when I'm through with you."

* * *

"I saw that yawn," Emma teases from Henry's bedroom door. It's late, probably after midnight, but he's staring blearily at the video game he's been playing nearly since they arrived after nine. "Killian will understand if you fall asleep, Henry."

"His flight lands any minute. I'm good."

She smiles, stepping into his room and pressing a kiss to his forehead. He scowls, pulling away immediately with a face. At sixteen, he isn't overly fond of his mother's affection – or at least, he likes to act as though he isn't. "You know what LAX is like on a Friday night. He won't be home for hours."

Her son frowns at her, pausing the game and setting down the controller. "I told him you've been sick. Maybe Dad can make you go to the doctor."

Emma's stomach flips, a flush rising to her cheeks as her hand goes automatically to her belly. She has been to see a doctor – but she needs to have this conversation with Killian before she tells Henry. "I'm fine, kid. You can go to bed assured I will tell Killian everything."

Henry's look is suspicious but he nods as she wishes him a good night and leaves the room, the sound of the game unpaused following her into the hallway. Emma sighs quietly as she returns to the kitchen, eyeing the cooling cupcakes she made earlier in the evening. Henry didn't think anything of it – Emma usually makes cupcakes when Killian returns from a long trip.

But these aren't just any cupcakes.

Emma hums to herself as she pulls out the ingredients for frosting, her thoughts wandering. Who would have guessed all those years ago when she told Killian she found baking soothing it would lead here? They even had cupcakes at their wedding, a sentimental touch Killian insisted on and Emma loved him for.

And she'd finally told Elsa the real reason she collapsed on her kitchen floor that horrible night.

Emma smiles in spite of the dark memory, glancing at the wedding photo barely visible from where she's standing on the hallway wall. True to his word, Killian made sure she got exactly what she wanted – a small ceremony at their house by the ranch with only their closest friends. Even still, she was shaking while Mary Margaret and Elsa helped lace her dress, but the sight of Killian at the end of aisle – and Henry next to him – had erased all trace of nerves.

Three years later, their life is as close to perfect as she could have dreamed up. They have two beautiful homes and a loving family – not long after their wedding, Killian officially adopted Henry. His career has continued to flourish, and though she eventually made the decision to give up her job at Granny's, she's found fulfillment in other ways, volunteering and mentoring troubled kids. They've had their moments – they're both stubborn, hot-headed people – but Emma has never doubted Killian's love for her or for Henry.

She falls into the rhythm of frosting the cupcakes, muscle memory taking over as she swirls the piping bag over and over. She's not sure why she's nervous about this – they've been trying – but she's pretty sure it has something to do with the last time she was in this position.

And how very different things were.

"This time _is_ different," she whispers to herself firmly, her palm flattening against her belly as she pauses frosting. She won't be alone and terrified – she'll have Killian at her side.

Setting down the piping bag, she starts to carefully arrange the cupcakes in a neat row, the house silent. She listens hard for a moment, trying to determine if Henry is still up before padding down the hall to his bedroom. The TV is still on, but her son is curled up in the middle of his bed, sound asleep. With a smile, she sets the game controller on shelf by the TV as she turns it off and eases his door closed.

Back in the kitchen, she feels a little ridiculous as she resumes her cupcake arrangement. The idea sounded so cute when she heard it, but was it just her weird pregnancy hormones making her overly sentimental and cheesy?

With Killian overseas, she hadn't wanted to share this news over the phone, but she was dying to tell someone. Mary Margaret would tell David, who wouldn't be able to hide it from Killian, so Emma called Elsa, who happened to be in the car with her sister.

"Oh my god, congratulations! How are you going to tell him?" Anna demanded, peppy as ever even over the phone line.

"Um...when he comes home?"

"No, I mean, like are you going to get a baby–sized jersey for that soccer team he likes? Or write a cute message out someplace he'll find it? Oh! You make those cupcakes all the time! You should totally use that!"

"However you want to tell him, he's going to be so excited, Emma," Elsa's more level voice cut in over her sister's rambling. "I'm really happy for you both! I think I have some time clear next month to come for a visit if you'll be around?"

"I would love that."

Which is how Emma came to be spelling out _welcome home daddy_ in white chocolate chips across a row of chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting at one in the morning.

She cleans up the kitchen once she's finished, her eyes drifting back to the careful display every few moments, as though her mere presence in the room might disturb the message.

She's fidgeting in the kitchen when she hears the door open, and her heart is instantly hammering in her chest. "In the kitchen," she calls softly once the door shuts, Killian's steps echoing in the still house.

"Mmm, you've been baking." Killian rounds the corner into the kitchen, his expression tired but happy. Emma wipes her hands on her pants, nervously standing in front of the row of carefully arranged cupcakes.

"These are special," she says softly, running her thumb along his stubbled cheek before kissing him to hide the tremor in her voice.

"Special, you say?" he asks as they break apart, curious. He leans around her to get a better look at the counter. "What's so…" He stops suddenly, gently grasping her arms to move her aside until he's standing right in front of the line of cupcakes. "Henry has never called me _daddy_ ," he says slowly, his eyes finding Emma's.

"No, he hasn't." Emma takes a deep breath, gesturing toward the cupcakes before resting a hand on her still flat stomach. "But this one might."

"You're pregnant?" he whispers, eyes wide and awe–filled. He glances between the cupcakes and Emma's tentative smile, taking a step close to her. "Truly?"

"According to two at-home tests and the doctor, yes. I'm pregnant."

She's in his arms before her mind can catch up, his embrace gentle in spite of the rather passionate kiss. His eyes shine with tears just as they did on their wedding day, and Emma finally allows herself to breathe and be _happy_.

"Bloody hell, I love you." He kisses her again, sighing happily as they break apart. "Henry mentioned you hadn't been feeling well last time I spoke with him. I assume from his insistence that I force you to the doctor's office upon my return you haven't told the lad?"

"I wanted us to do it together."

"Aye, together." His brows furrow, hands running over her. "Has it truly been that bad? I would have come home early."

"I was sick a lot with Henry the first trimester," she admits, leaning into the solidness of Killian's chest. Now that she's told him, the anxiety and adrenaline is fading and tiredness is catching up to her. "It will probably be the same this time. There's nothing you can do other than put up with me when I'm grumpy and fat."

"I will call Regina in the morning to clear my schedule."

"You don't have to do that. Save it for later. I'll be okay on my own."

"I know that, love. But you don't have to be. I want to be there for every moment of this." He nudges her until she looks up at him, his eyes still glassy but filled with love. "We talked about me cutting back when this happened. I'll wrap up this movie in another month or so, and I'll talk to the studio about the other."

"Don't you dare pull out of that. They're shooting in LA. You purposefully picked one that was filming here in case I got pregnant," she reminds him, pressing closer. "I'm pregnant," she repeats into his chest, the wonder of saying it out loud – of telling Killian – making it fresh all over again.

"You're pregnant," he repeats, kissing her hair and holding her snug against him. "We're going to have a baby."

"I hope she gets your eyes."

"You already know? I thought…"

Emma laughs at the baffled expression on his face, pulling away slightly to run her fingers up his jaw. "No, I don't know. It's just a feeling. We won't know for awhile."

"A little girl," he whispers, tangling his fingers in Emma's hair. "I must confess, I hope she has her mother's eyes. And smile. I love your smile, darling."

"Whatever she looks like, I know at least one thing I'll have to teach her."

"Oh?"

Emma laughs, gesturing to the countertop. "How to make cupcakes, of course."

* * *

So this is probably going to be the longest note you've ever seen from me, but here goes.

Someone said very early on that this was going to be the fic that got them through hiatus. I laughed at the time because I was sure I would be done posting by maybe mid-July. And here it is, hours before 5x01, and the epilogue is just now going up. I suppose this is more my style, sneaking in right before the self-imposed deadline.

It has been such a blast to have you all along for this incredibly fun ride. Obviously TWFI isn't my first CS fic - and probably not my last - but it's been the most popular and a consequence of that has been getting to talk to so many of you. Your messages and notes and comments have made some truly shitty days over the last few months infinitely better, and you've given me back confidence that maybe I CAN just do this writing thing after all. Maybe the novel I've started will actually be the first one I really finish.

A couple extra-special thank yous:

oncepromised - TWFI wouldn't have gotten written without you. Thanks for picking fake-dating over roommates as the trope I went for next, and for the long rambly plotting conversations and pre-reading of the early chapters.

onceuponsomechaos - I don't actually have enough thank yous for the beta work you did on this. You pushed me to be better even when I wanted to just delete the whole damn thing and walk away. Also, you're a damn good friend. So thanks for threatening to jump off a cliff.

oncesnow - Many, many thanks for stepping up to the beta plate on these last few chapters when life got crazy. You've been wonderful. Mwah!

Finally, for those of you still waiting on outtake requests, I promise they're coming. I grossly underestimated how busy this month was going to be, but at least one of them is nearly finished, so those should trickle in over the next few weeks. And then I suppose I have to figure out what on earth I'm writing next...


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